The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Page A

him, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.
    With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. ‘Don’t, Basil, don’t!’ he cried. ‘It would be murder!’
    â€˜I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,’ said the painter, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. ‘I never thought you would.’
    â€˜Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.’
    â€˜Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.’ And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. ‘You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?’
    â€˜I adore simple pleasures,’ said Lord Henry. ‘They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I really do.’
    â€˜If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!’ cried Dorian Gray; ‘and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.’
    â€˜You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.’
    â€˜And you know you have been a little silly, Mr Gray, and that you don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.’
    â€˜I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.’
    â€˜Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.’
    There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.
    â€˜Let us go to the theatre to-night,’ said Lord Henry. ‘There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, 8 but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse; it would have all the surprise of candour.’
    â€˜It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,’ muttered Hallward. ‘And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.’
    â€˜Yes,’ answered Lord Henry, dreamily, ‘the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.’
    â€˜You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.’
    â€˜Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?’
    â€˜Before either.’
    â€˜I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,’ said the lad.
    â€˜Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won’t you?’
    â€˜I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.’
    â€˜Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr Gray.’
    â€˜I should like that awfully.’
    The painter bit his lip and