 THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY by Oscar Wilde CHAPTER I The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink flowering thorn. From the corner of the devan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Watton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a labyrinum, whose cramulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs, and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long, tuss or silk curtains that were stretched.