ty.
Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it
again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The
horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly
there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men
mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel
smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met
his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted
image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter
more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would
die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its
fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would
be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation.
He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to
those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward's garden had
first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go
back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again.
Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had.
Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that
she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together.
His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the
portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured to
himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he
stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning
air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of
Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name
over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched
garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

CHAPTER VIII

It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times
on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what
made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and
Victor came softly in with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a
small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,
with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall