|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
147 around at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself. “I am going on to the other place,” he said, after a pause. “On the wharf?” “Yes.” “That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place now.” Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.” “Much the same.” “I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have something.” “I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man. “Never mind.” Adrian Singleton rose up wearily, and followed Dorian to the bar. A half caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. The women sidled up, and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them, and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. “We’re very proud to-night,” she sneered. “For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me again.” Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then flickered out, and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head, and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched her enviously. “It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton “I don’t care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here.” “You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian, after a pause. “Perhaps.” “Good-night, then.” “Good-night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps, and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew the curtain aside a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken the money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. |
