een to Sibyl Vane. It was not
too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His
unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be
transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil
Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would
be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the
fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could
lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the
degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men
brought upon their souls.

Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime,
but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet
threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way
through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was
wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he
went over to the table, and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had
loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He
covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of
pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we
feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not
the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the
letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice
outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear
your shutting yourself up like this."

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking
still continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry
in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel
with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was
inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,
and unlocked the door.

"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry, as he entered. "But
you must not think too much about it."

"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad.

"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly
pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view,
but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after
the play was over?"

"Yes."

"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?"

"I was brutal,