“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself,—­ “murdered her as certainly as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.  And the roses are not less lovely for all that.  The birds sing just as happily in my garden.  And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards.  How extraordinarily dramatic life is!  If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it.  Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.  Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life.  Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl.  Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?  Sibyl!  Can she feel, or know, or listen?  Oh, Harry, how I loved her once!  It seems years ago to me now.  She was everything to me.  Then came that dreadful night—­was it really only last night?—­when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke.  She explained it all to me.  It was terribly pathetic.  But I was not moved a bit.  I thought her shallow.  Then something happened that made me afraid.  I can’t tell you what it was, but it was awful.  I said I would go back to her.  I felt I had done wrong.  And now she is dead.  My God! my God!  Harry, what shall I do?  You don’t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight.  She would have done that for me.  She had no right to kill herself.  It was selfish of her.”

“My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.  If you had married this girl you would have been wretched.  Of course you would have treated her kindly.  One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.  But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her.  And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to [48] pay for.  I say nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”

“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room, and looking horribly pale.  “But I thought it was my duty.  It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.  I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions,—­that they are always made too late.  Mine certainly were.”

“Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt to interfere with scientific laws.  Their origin is pure vanity.  Their result is absolutely nil.  They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for us.  That is all that can be said for them.”

“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, “why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to?  I don’t think I am heartless.  Do you?”