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motionless and in wonder.
    â€œDo you like it?” asked Rosemary, looking stung by Dorian’s silence. Helen almost felt sorry for her. The poor lass had no idea of what had taken place between her and Dorian in the garden—had never known any kind of erotic happening in any garden, or anywhere, for that matter. Helen suppressed a giggle. If Rosemary was stung now, imagine how she’d look if she were to possess any knowledge of the events that had transpired just moments ago!
    Dorian remained speechless, so Helen spoke for him.
    â€œOf course he likes it, Rosemary. Who wouldn’t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like for it. I must have it.”
    Rosemary looked down and sighed.
    â€œOh, come now, love, you can and shall part with it,” said Helen.
    â€œYes, I shall part with it,” said Rosemary.
    â€œGood girl!” cheered Helen with mock applause. “Now for the real art in all this painting: the business transaction!”
    â€œOh, no,” said Rosemary, biting her lip in a way that most infuriated Helen because it was such a pose for attention. “I’m not selling it,” she said. And before Helen could continue, she said, “Nor am I giving it away to anyone. It’s not my property, Helen,” she said.
    â€œWhose property is it?”
    â€œDorian’s, of course.”
    â€œHe is a very lucky fellow.”
    â€œHow sad it is,” murmured Dorian, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day. . . . If it were only the other way! If it were I who was always to be young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world that I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”
    â€œYou would hardly care for such an arrangement, Rosemary, would you?” Helen scoffed.
    â€œI should object very strongly, Helen.”
    â€œYes, it would be rather hard lines on your work,” said Helen, laughing.
    â€œThis is not a joke!” cried Dorian. “Helen is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.”
    Rosemary turned pale and grabbed Dorian’s hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” she cried. “Don’t talk like that! I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you? You are finer than any of them!”
    â€œI am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something away from me, and gives something to it. Why did you paint it, Rosemary? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” He tore his hand away from Rosemary, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions as if he was praying.
    â€œThis is your doing, Helen,” said Rosemary bitterly.
    Helen shrugged. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is all.”
    â€œIt is not.”
    â€œIf it is not, what have I to do with it?” asked Helen, coyly.
    â€œYou should have gone away when I asked you to,” muttered Rosemary.
    â€œI stayed when you asked me.”
    â€œHelen, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both, you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and color? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”
    Dorian lifted his head from the pillow and, with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, watched Rosemary move to the desk where she stored her utensils. She opened a drawer and dug around, her fingers straying among the litter of tin tubes