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For a moment , he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease . It had changed in answer to a prayer ; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged . And yet , who , that knew anything about life , would surrender the chance of remaining always young , however fantastic that chance might be , or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught ? Besides , was it really under his control ? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution ? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all ? If thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism , might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things ? Nay , without thought or conscious desire , might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions , atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity ? But the reason was of no importance . He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power . If the picture was to alter , it was to alter . That was all . Why inquire too closely into it ? For there would be a real pleasure in watching it . He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places . This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors . As it had revealed to him his own body , so it would reveal to him his own soul . And when winter came upon it , he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer . When the blood crept from its face , and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes , he would keep the glamour of boyhood . Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade . Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken . Like the gods of the Greeks , he would be strong , and fleet , and joyous . What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas ? He would be safe . That was everything . He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture , smiling as he did so , and passed into his bedroom , where his valet was already waiting for him . An hour later he was at the opera , and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair . CHAPTER IX . As he was sitting at breakfast next morning , Basil Hallward was shown into the room . “ I am so glad I have found you , Dorian , ” he said gravely . “ I called last night , and they told me you were at the opera . Of course , I knew that was impossible . But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to . I passed a dreadful evening , half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another . I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first . I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of The Globe that I picked up at the club . I came here at once and was miserable at not finding you . I can’t tell you how heart - broken I am about the whole thing . I know what you must suffer . But where were you ? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother ? For a moment I thought of following you there . They gave the address in the paper . Somewhere in the Euston Road , isn’t it ? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten . Poor woman ! What a state she must be in ! And her only child , too ! What did she say about it all ? ”
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