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“ Ten minutes past two ? How horribly late ! You must wake me at nine to - morrow . I have some work to do . ” “ All right , sir . ” “ Did any one call this evening ? ” “ Mr . Hallward , sir . He stayed here till eleven , and then he went away to catch his train . ” “ Oh ! I am sorry I didn’t see him . Did he leave any message ? ” “ No , sir , except that he would write to you from Paris , if he did not find you at the club . ” “ That will do , Francis . Don’t forget to call me at nine to - morrow . ” “ No , sir . ” The man shambled down the passage in his slippers . Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the library . For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room , biting his lip and thinking . Then he took down the Blue Book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves . “ Alan Campbell , 152 , Hertford Street , Mayfair . ” Yes ; that was the man he wanted . CHAPTER XIV . At nine o’clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters . Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully , lying on his right side , with one hand underneath his cheek . He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play , or study . The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke , and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips , as though he had been lost in some delightful dream . Yet he had not dreamed at all . His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain . But youth smiles without any reason . It is one of its chiefest charms . He turned round , and leaning upon his elbow , began to sip his chocolate . The mellow November sun came streaming into the room . The sky was bright , and there was a genial warmth in the air . It was almost like a morning in May . Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent , blood - stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness . He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered , and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him , and he grew cold with passion . The dead man was still sitting there , too , and in the sunlight now . How horrible that was ! Such hideous things were for the darkness , not for the day . He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad . There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them , strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions , and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy , greater than any joy they brought , or could ever bring , to the senses . But this was not one of them . It was a thing to be driven out of the mind , to be drugged with poppies , to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself .
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