"I should object very strongly, Harry."

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil.
You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than
a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say."

Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like
that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was
flushed and his cheeks burning.

"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your
silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me?
Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one
loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything.
Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right.
Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing
old, I will kill myself."

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he
cried, "don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you,
and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material
things, are you?"

"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous
of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I
must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and
gives something to it. Oh, if it was only the other way! If the
picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did
you paint it? It will mock me some day,--mock me horribly!" The hot