It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results.  His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest.  There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion.  What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous.  It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us.  Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious.  It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner.  He got up and looked out into the street.  The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite.  The panes glowed like plates of heated metal.  The sky above was like a faded rose.  He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table.  He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray.  It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

CHAPTER 5

“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained.  “I am so happy!” she repeated, “and you must be happy, too!”

Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter’s head.  “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I see you act.  You must not think of anything but your acting.  Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money.”

The girl looked up and pouted.  “Money, Mother?” she cried, “what does money matter?  Love is more than money.”

“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James.  You must not forget that, Sibyl.  Fifty pounds is a very large sum.  Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.”

“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,” said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.

“I don’t know how we could manage without him,” answered the elder woman querulously.

Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed.  “We don’t want him any more, Mother.  Prince Charming rules life for us now.”  Then she paused.  A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks.  Quick breath parted the petals of her lips.  They trembled.  Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress.  “I love him,” she said simply.