As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the
greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on
her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance
about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy
came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.

"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It was
dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea
what I suffered."

The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with
long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to
the red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. But
you understand now, don't you?"

"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.

"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never
act well again."

He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you
shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I
was bored."

She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An
ecstasy of happiness dominated her.

"Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one
reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought
that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The
joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also.
I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to
me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but
shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my beautiful love!-- and
you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is.
To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness,
the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always
played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo
was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was
false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak
were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had
brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a
reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My
love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You
are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the
puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how
it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to
be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my
soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them
hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take
me away, Dorian--take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I
hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot
mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand
now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation
for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that."

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have
killed my love," he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came
across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt
down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder
ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have
killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir
my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were
marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized
the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of
art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God!
how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to
me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will
never mention your name. You don't know what you were to me, once. Why,
once . . . Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes
upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can
know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are
nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world
would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are
you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."

The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and
her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?"
she murmured. "You are acting."

"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly.

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and
looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried.

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay
there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she
whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you all
the time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across
me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not
kissed me-- if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.
Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Oh! don't go away from me. My


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