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I. The Painter’s Secret
The studio was full of the smell of roses. When the summer wind moved through the trees of the garden, the heavy scent of lilac came in through the open door. Lord Henry Wotton lay on a long sofa in the corner, smoking one cigarette after another, as he always did. Far away, the noise of London sounded like the low note of an organ.
In the centre of the room stood the full-length portrait of a young man of rare beauty. In front of it sat the painter himself, Basil Hallward. He looked at his work with a smile of pleasure, but then he suddenly closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against them. It was as if he wanted to keep a strange dream inside his head.
“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry lazily.