Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am
not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know
myself better."

"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would
find you plunged in remorse, and tearing that nice curly hair of yours."

"I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head, and
smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin
with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us.
Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before me. I want to be
good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous."

"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you
on it. But how are you going to begin?"

"By marrying Sibyl Vane."

"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him
in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian----"

"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about
marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to me again.
Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word
to her. She is to be my wife!"

"Your wife! Dorian!... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this
morning, and sent the note down, by my own man."

"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was
afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. You cut life
to pieces with your epigrams."

"You know nothing then?"

"What do you mean?"

Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray,
took both his hands in his own, and held them tightly. "Dorian," he
said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane
is dead."

A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet,
tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is
not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?"

"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the
morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till I
came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be
mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in
London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one's
_debut_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to
one's old age. I suppose they don't know your name at the theatre? If
they don't, it is all right. Did anyone see you going ro