"I am not cold," he murmured.
Was it all true?
Had the portrait really changed?
Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy?
Surely a painted canvas could not alter?
The thing was absurd.

It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day.
It would make him smile.
And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips.

He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room.

He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait.

He was afraid of certainty.