w it
was all going to end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram
lying on the hall table. He opened it, and found it was from Dorian
Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl
Vane.

CHAPTER V

"Mother, mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in
the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the
shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their
dingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you
must be happy too!"

Mrs. Vane winced, and put her thin bismuth-whitened hands on her
daughter's head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I
see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs
has been very good to us, and we owe him money."

The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, mother?" she cried, "what does
money matter? Love is more than money."

"Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts, and to
get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty
pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate."

"He is not a gentleman, mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said
the girl, rising to her feet, and going over to the window.

"I don't know how we could manage without him," answered the elder
woman, querulously.

Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don't want him any more,
mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose
shook in her blood, and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the
petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept
over her, and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she
said, simply.

"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.
The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the
words.

The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her
eyes caught the melody, and echoed it in radiance; then closed for a
moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a
dream had passed across them.

Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence,
quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common
sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her
prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on Memory to
remake him. She had sent her soul to sear