him with an expression of horror.

"My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? Of
course she killed herself."

The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he muttered,
and a shudder ran through him.

"No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one of
the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead
the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives,
or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtue, and all
that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest
tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played--the night
you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love.
When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She
passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr
about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all
its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not
suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment--about
half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six--you would have found me in
tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had
no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed
away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists.
And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me.
That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How
like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about
a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to
get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget
exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his
disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_,
and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if
you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has
happened, or to see it from the proper artistic point of view. Was it
not Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I
remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day
and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young
man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man
who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries
of life. I love beautiful things