Yes, he remembered it perfectly.
He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.

Surely his wish had not been fulfilled?
Such things were impossible.

It seemed monstrous even to think of them.

And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Cruelty! Had he been cruel?
It was the girl's fault, not his.

He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great.