You are more to me than all art can ever be.  What have I to do with the puppets of a play?  When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me.  I thought that I was going to be wonderful.  I found that I could do nothing.  Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant.  The knowledge was exquisite to me.  I heard them hissing, and I smiled.  What could they know of love such as ours?  Take me away, Dorian—­take me away with you, where we can be quite alone.  I hate the stage.  I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire.  Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies?  Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love.  You have made me see that.”

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. 
“You have killed my love,” he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed.  He made no answer.  She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair.  She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips.  He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door.  “Yes,” he cried, “you have killed my love.  You used to stir my imagination.  Now you don’t even stir my curiosity.  You simply produce no effect.  I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art.  You have thrown it all away.  You are shallow and stupid.  My God! how mad I was to love you!  What a fool I have been!  You are nothing to me now.  I will never see you again.  I will never think of you.  I will never mention your name.  You don’t know what you were to me, once.  Why, once . . .  Oh, I can’t bear to think of it!  I wish I had never laid eyes upon you!  You have spoiled the romance of my life.  How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!  Without your art, you are nothing.  I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent.  The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name.  What are you now?  A third-rate actress with a pretty face.”

The girl grew white, and trembled.  She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.  “You are not serious, Dorian?” she murmured.  “You are acting.”

“Acting!  I leave that to you.  You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him.  She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes.  He thrust her back.  “Don’t touch me!” he cried.