that one can touch and handle. Old
brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite
surroundings, luxury, pomp, there is much to be got from all these. But
the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is
still more to me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry
says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my
talking to you like this. You have not realised how I have developed. I
was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions,
new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less.
I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very fond
of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not
stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how
happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel
with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."

The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,
and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He
could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his
indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was
so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.

"Well, Dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak to
you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your
name won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take
place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"

Dorian shook his head and a look of annoyance passed over his face at
the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and
vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my name," he
answered.

"But surely she did?"

"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to
anyone. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who
I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It
was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should
like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and
some broken pathetic words."

"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you
must come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you."

"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed,
starting back.

The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he