Cer 8

    It  noon imes on tiptoe into to see if irring, and  made er sleep so late. Finally or came in softly ea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres cin curtains,   of tall windows.

    quot;Monsieur  t; he said, smiling.

    quot; oclock is it, Victor?quot; asked Dorian Gray drowsily.

    quot;One er, Monsieur.quot;

    e it urned over ters. One of t by  morning. ated for a moment, and t it aside. tlessly. tained tion of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private vies, and t are soilet-set t  yet o send on to remely old-fas realize t eously ions from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moments notice and at t reasonable rates of interest.

    After about ten minutes  up, and te dressing-goer refreser o ten all t aken part in some strange tragedy came to  ty of a dream about it.

    As soon as  into t doo a lig t  for able close to t e day. t, filled ood before  perfectly happy.

    Suddenly   of trait, and arted.

    quot;too cold for Monsieur?quot; asked , putting an omelette on table. quot;I s t;

    Dorian s;I am not cold,quot; he murmured.

    as it all true? rait really c been simply ion t ed canvas could not alter? t ale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile.

    And, yet, ion of t in t dreaded  leaving t rait. ainty. tes  and turned to go,  a o tell o remain. As tood ing for  . quot;I am not at o any one, Victor,quot; ired.

    table, lit a cigarette, and f