T
hrough the open windows of the room came the rich
scent of summer flowers. Lord Henry Wotton lay
back in his chair and smoked his cigarette. Beyond
the soft sounds of the garden he could just hear the noise of
London.
In the centre of the room there was a portrait of a very
beautiful young man, and in front of it stood the artist
himself, Basil Hallward.
'It's your best work, Basil, the best portrait that you've ever
painted,' said Lord Henry lazily. 'You must send it to the best
art gallery in London.'
'No,' Basil said slowly. 'No, I won't send it anywhere.'
Lord Henry was surprised. 'But my dear Basil, why not?'
he asked. 'What strange people you artists are! You want to
be famous, but then you're not happy when you are famous.
It's bad when people talk about you - but it's much worse
when they don't talk about you.'
'I know you'll laugh at me,' replied Basil, 'but I can't
exhibit the picture in an art gallery. I've put too much of
myself into it.'
Lord Henry laughed. 'Too much of yourself into it! You
don't look like him at all. He has a fair and beautiful
face. And you - well, you look intelligent, of course, but with