hat is a rather commonplace
_debut_."

"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Sibyl Vane."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."

"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They
never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent
the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of
mind over morals."

"Harry, how can you?"

"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at the present,
so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was.
I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain
and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a
reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to
supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,
however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers
painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used
to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten
years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for
conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and
two of these can't be admitted into decent society. However, tell me
about your genius. How long have you known her?"

"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me."

"Never mind that. How long have you known her?"

"About three weeks."

"And where did you come across her?"

"I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it.
After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled
me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I
met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the
Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who
passed me, and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they
led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was
an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well,
one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search of
some adventure. I felt that this grey, monstrous London of ours, with
its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you
once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a
thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I
remembered what you had said to