k 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