whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one
with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at
Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in
question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and
digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance
in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again, and assured me that I
had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous
dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she
showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women
never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,
and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to
continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have
a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are
charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more
fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I
have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary
women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for
sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her
age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It
always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation
in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They
flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most
fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the
charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quite understand
it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a
sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end
to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not
mentioned the most important one."

"What is that, Harry?" said the lad, listlessly.

"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking someone else's admirer when one
loses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But
really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the
women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her
death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They
make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as
romance, passion, and love."

"I was terribly cruel to her. You