The studio was filled with the rich smell of roses. Basil Hallward, the painter, stood in front of his finished work, and Lord Henry Wotton lay on a divan, smoking. The picture was the portrait of a young man of extraordinary beauty. "It is your best work, Basil," said Lord Henry. "You must send it to the Grosvenor." "I will not send it anywhere," answered the painter. "I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry laughed. "Too much of yourself? You have a strong face and coal-black hair, and this young man looks as if he were made of ivory and rose-leaves." "You do not understand me," said Basil. "Every portrait painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. I am afraid I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." "And what is his name?" "Dorian Gray. But I did not mean to tell you." "Why not?" "When I like people very much, I never tell their names to anyone. It is like giving away a part of them."