you love, Dorian. Love is a more
wonderful thing than Art."

"They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do
let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for
one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose you will want
your wife to act. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a
wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life
as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are
only two kinds of people who are really fascinating--people who know
absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good
heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic! The secret of remaining
young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club
with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty
of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?"

"Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must
go. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to
his eyes. His lips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he
leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry, with a strange tenderness in his
voice; and the two young men passed out together.

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtain rose
on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and
proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable.
Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots, and laughing.
The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty
benches. The curtain went down on a titter, and some groans.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the
greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on
her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance
about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy
came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.

"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement--"horribly! It was
dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea
what I suffered."

The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with
long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to
the red petals of her mou