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him—he was so ridden with good manners!
    This time it was Rosemary who emerged. She had freshened up and newly applied some makeup—though in Helen’s opinion, she never applied enough—and fixed her hair. She remained by the door and called out, “Do come in! The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks!” And then went back inside.
    They rose and sauntered down the walk together. Butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear tree at the corner of the garden a lone songbird began to sing. Helen searched Dorian’s face for evidence of the lust she’d roused in him, but other than the guilty flush on his cheeks, there was no sign that moments ago he’d been surrendered to her.
    â€œYou are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray?” said Helen, looking at him with hypnotic intent.
    Dorian took in a ruminative breath. He spoke carefully. “Yes, I am glad now. I wonder, shall I always be glad?”
    â€œAlways?” cried Helen, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. It’s funny to hear a man use it—normally I hear it from women. I cherish Rosemary, you know, but, ah, how she spoils the idea of romance by thinking the only one worth having is the one that lasts forever , which is a meaningless word. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”
    At the door to the studio, Dorian paused and held Helen’s hand. He gazed at her intently. “In that case,” he said, “let our friendship be a caprice.” He flushed at his own boldness, then opened the door for her. He followed her in and stepped up on the platform by the easel and resumed his pose.
    Helen returned to the wicker armchair, much satisfied by her first day in educating the most divine Dorian Gray. She watched Rosemary at work, conscious of wearing a distant expression that indicated boredom. She was, in fact, quite taken with Rosemary’s process and envied the girl’s impeccable precision. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Rosemary stepped back to look at her work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway, the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of roses seemed to brood over everything.
    After about a quarter of an hour, Rosemary stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting her lower lip and frowning. “It is quite finished,” she said at last, and stooping down, she wrote R. Hall in vermilion letters on the bottom left-hand corner of the canvas. Helen had been the one to advise her to use only her first initial, rather than her full name, which, she’d said, reeked of their lesser gender.
    Helen rose and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art and a wonderful likeness as well. Yes, as usual, Rosemary had displayed a most incredible talent. But, as Helen saw it, there was something even more powerful about this painting. It seemed to sing all of Rosemary’s unsung desires.
    â€œMy dear Rosemary, I congratulate you most warmly,” she said. “It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.”
    Dorian started as if awakened from a dream. “Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.
    â€œQuite finished,” said Rosemary. “And you have sat splendidly today. I am awfully obliged to you.”
    â€œThat is entirely due to me,” broke in Helen. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”
    Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned toward it. When he saw it, he drew back, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he recognized himself for the first time. He stood there,