ll not be able to do."

"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What
then?"

"Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go--"then, my dear Dorian, you
would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to
you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too
much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot
spare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. We
are rather late, as it is."

"I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat
anything. What is the number of your sister's box?"

"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name
on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine."

"I don't feel up to it," said Dorian, listlessly. "But I am awfully
obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my
best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have."

"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered Lord
Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you before
nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing."

As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in a
few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He
waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable
time over everything.

As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. No;
there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of
Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious
of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred
the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment
that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it
indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed
within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the
change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.

Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death
on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her, and taken her with
him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed him, as
she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a
sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice
she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had
made him go through, on that horrible