It was a lovely night. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young man in evening dress passed him.
He heard one of them whisper to the other: "That is Dorian Gray". He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or starteed at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. When he reached home, he threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and begane to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.

Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood.
He knew that he had tarnished himself and filled his mind whit corruption, that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so.

He took the mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, as he had done on that night of orror, when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture. He loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the floor, crusced it. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.

As the thougth of Hetty Metron, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the sign of evil, had already gone away. He would go and look. He taked the lamp, and crept upstairs. He went in quietly, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hipocrite. The thing was still loathsome more loathsome, if possible, than before. The deth of Basill Hallward, seemed very little tohim. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was lookingat. Vanity? Curiosity? Hipocrisy? In hipocrisay he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognised that now. Bat thise murder, was it do dog him all his life?. Was he always to be burdened by his past? Was he really to confess?. NEVER!.There was only one, bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself, that was evidence. He wuold destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled whit terror lest other eyes shou look upon it. It had brought melanchony across his passions Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like coscience to him. Yes, it had been coscience. He would destroy it. He looked around, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basill Hallward. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill ther painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill thise mostruos soullife, and, without its hideus warnings, he would be at pace. He sazed the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.

There was a cry heard, and a crush. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Francis was as paleas death.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of footman, and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there wasn't replay. They clled out. Everything was still. Finally, agter vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The windous yielded easly; their bolts were old.

When they entered they found, hanging upon the wall, a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, and loathsome of visage.
It was not till they had examinatrd the rings that they recognised who it was.