Chapter 8
It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres a, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.
"Monsieur has well slept this m," he said, smiling.
"What oclock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily.
"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur."
How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that m. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They taihe usual colle of cards, invitations to diickets for private views, programmes of charity certs, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every m during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quioilet-set that he had not yet had the ce to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only ies; and there were several very courteously worded unications from Jermyn Street money-lenders to advany sum of mo a moments notid at the most reasoes of i.
After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have fotten all that he had gohrough. A dim sense of having taken part in some straragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the uy of a dream about it.
As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. He felt perfectly happy.
Suddenly his eye fell on the s that he had placed in front of the portrait, aarted.
"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting ae oable. "I shut the window?"
Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured.
Was it all true? Had the portrait really ged? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted vas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile.
And, yet, how vivid was his recolle of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seeouch of cruelty round the ed lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He khat when he was alone he would have to examihe portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turo go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said with a sigh. The man bowed aired.
Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood fag the s. The s