AS HE WAS SITTING at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room.
“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said, gravely. “I called last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course, I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?”
“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sung divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman's only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting.”
“You went to the Opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the Opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”
“Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.”
“You call yesterday the past?”
“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”
“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's influence. I see that.”
The lad flushed up, and, going to the window looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last—"more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.”
“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”
“I don't know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I don't know what you want. What do you want?”
“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist, sadly.
“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself—”
“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.
“My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a...
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