“That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the place—that is all. Give me the
“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?”
“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”
She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household.
He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best.
She left the room, wreathed in smiles.
As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room.
His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in.
It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself—something that would breed horrors and yet would never die.
What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive.