her, wasn't it?"

"No; I don't think so."

"My dear Harry, why?"

"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl."

"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child
about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what
I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her
power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning
at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about
us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would
insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not
anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a
prince. I must call you Prince Charming.'"

"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."

"You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in
a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded
tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta
dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better
days."

"I know that look. It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining his
rings.

"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest
me."

"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about
other people's tragedies."

"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came
from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and
entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every
night she is more marvellous."

"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I
thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is
not quite what I expected."

"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have
been to the Opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his blue
eyes in wonder.

"You always come dreadfully late."

"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is
only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think
of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I
am filled with awe."

"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?"

He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow
night she will be Juliet."

"When is she Sibyl Vane?"

"Never."

"I congratulate you."

"How horrid you are!