He would resist temptation.  He would not see Lord Henry any more—­would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things.  He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again.  Yes, it was his duty to do so.  She must have suffered more than he had.  Poor child!  He had been selfish and cruel to her.  The fascination that she had exercised over him would return.  They would be happy together.  His life with her would be beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it.  “How horrible!” he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it.  When he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath.  The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions.  He thought only of Sibyl.  A faint echo of his love came back to him.  He repeated her name over and over again.  The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

CHAPTER 8

It was long past noon when he awoke.  His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late.  Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.

“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.

“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.

“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”

How late it was!  He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters.  One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning.  He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside.  The others he opened listlessly.  They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season.  There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest.

After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom.  The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.  He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through.  A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it.