he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just
conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things
were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet,
there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he
had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been
shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over
him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child.
He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been
made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had
suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted,
he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was
well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her
for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men.
They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When
they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could
have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what
women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to
him now.

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his
life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.
Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The
horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly
there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men
mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel
smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met
his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted
image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter
more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would
die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its
fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would
be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation.
He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to
those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward's garden had
first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go
back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again.
Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had.
Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that
she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together.
His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the
portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured to
himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he
stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning
air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of
Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name
over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched
garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

CHAPTER 8

It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times
on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what
made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and
Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a
small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,
with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall
windows.

"Monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling.

"What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily.

"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur."

How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his
letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand
that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The
others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of
cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of
charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young
men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for a
chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the
courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned
people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary
things are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously
worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to
advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable
rates of interest.

After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate
dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the
onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.
He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of
having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but
there was the unreality of a dream about it.

As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a
light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round
table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air
seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon
bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. He felt


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