He shook his head.  “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”

“When is she Sibyl Vane?”

“Never.”

“I congratulate you.”

“How horrid you are!  She is all the great heroines of the world in one.  She is more than an individual.  You laugh, but I tell you she has genius.  I love her, and I must make her love me.  You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me!  I want to make Romeo jealous.  I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad.  I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.  My God, Harry, how I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.  Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks.  He was terribly excited.

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure.  How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s studio!  His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame.  Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way.

“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.

“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act.  I have not the slightest fear of the result.  You are certain to acknowledge her genius.  Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands.  She is bound to him for three years—­at least for two years and eight months—­ from the present time.  I shall have to pay him something, of course.  When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly.  She will make the world as mad as she has made me.”

“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”

“Yes, she will.  She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”

“Well, what night shall we go?”

“Let me see.  To-day is Tuesday.  Let us fix to-morrow.  She plays Juliet to-morrow.”

“All right.  The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”

“Not eight, Harry, please.  Half-past six.  We must be there before the curtain rises.  You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo.”

“Half-past six!  What an hour!  It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel.  It must be seven.  No gentleman dines before seven.  Shall you see Basil between this and then?  Or shall I write to him?”

“Dear Basil!  I have not laid eyes on him for a week.  It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it.  Perhaps you had better write to him.  I don’t want to see him alone.  He says things that annoy me.  He gives me good advice.”