Three o’clock struck, and four, and half-past four, but he did not stir.  He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering.  He did not know what to do, or what to think.  Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness.  He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain.  There is a luxury in self-reproach.  When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us.  It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.  When Dorian Gray had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside.  “My dear Dorian, I must see you.  Let me in at once.  I can’t bear your shutting yourself up like this.”

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still.  The knocking still continued, and grew louder.  Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable.  He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door.

“I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy,” said Lord Henry, coming in.  “But you must not think about it too much.”

[46] “Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked Dorian.

“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off.  “It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault.  Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?”

“Yes.”

“I felt sure you had.  Did you make a scene with her?”

“I was brutal, Harry,—­perfectly brutal.  But it is all right now.  I am not sorry for anything that has happened.  It has taught me to know myself better.”

“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way!  I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair.”

“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling.  “I am perfectly happy now.  I know what conscience is, to begin with.  It is not what you told me it was.  It is the divinest thing in us.  Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more,—­at least not before me.  I want to be good.  I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”

“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian!  I congratulate you on it.  But how are you going to begin?”

“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”

“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement.  “But, my dear Dorian—­”

“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say.  Something dreadful about marriage.  Don’t say it.  Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again.  Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me.  I am not going to break my word to her.  She is to be my wife.”