And then Henry is on his feet. He strides toward Dorian and raises his hand but he does not strike—instead, with perfect gentleness he touches Dorian's chin, tilting his head so that he might examine Dorian's face minutely, impassively. He says nothing as he does this—and then he releases Dorian.

"Not a change," he murmurs. "It really is incredible, you know; there is not the slightest alteration to your eyes. There are still lilies and camellias in your cheek, your mouth is still a rose—" With a swift movement he takes Dorian's hand, raises it, subjects it to the same examination. "Your hands are white and unstained. You have not altered. You are not marred. Those words Oscar put into my mouth are not untrue." He releases Dorian's hand, steps away, draws on his cigarette again.

"But the pitch of your voice, Dorian. How have I not heard it before? Or rather, I suppose I heard it but did not listen. Basil was a genius, but he could not capture your voice in his painting, could he?"