He had the portrait carried up to the old schoolroom at the top of the house, locked the door, and kept the only key. Then the years began. He grew famous for his beauty, which never altered. Strange stories were told of him: of men who had lost their honour after knowing him, of women who never appeared in society again. Men who had been his friends would leave a room when he came into it. And yet his face stayed as pure as a boy's. Sometimes, at night, he would go up to the locked room with a lamp and stand before the picture, looking from the evil, ageing face on the canvas to the smooth young face in the mirror beside it. The contrast pleased him. He grew fonder and fonder of his own beauty, and more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. Eighteen years passed in this way.