“No, she will never come to life.  She has played her last part.  But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur.  The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died.  To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music sounded richer and more full of joy.  The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away.  Mourn for Ophelia, if you like.  Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled.  Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died.  But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane.  She was less real than they are.”

There was a silence.  The evening darkened in the room.  Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden.  The colors faded wearily out of things.

After some time Dorian Gray looked up.  “You have explained me to myself, Harry,” he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief.  “I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself.  How well you know me!  But we will not talk again of what has happened.  It has been a marvellous experience.  That is all.  I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.”

“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian.  There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”

“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled?  What then?”

“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go,—­“then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories.  As it is, they are brought to you.  No, you must keep your good looks.  We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful.  We cannot spare you.  And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club.  We are rather late, as it is.”

“I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry.  I feel too tired to eat anything.  What is the number of your sister’s box?”

“Twenty-seven, I believe.  It is on the grand tier.  You will see her name on the door.  But I am sorry you won’t come and dine.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” said Dorian, wearily.  “But I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me.  You are certainly my best friend.  No one has ever understood me as you have.”

“We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand.  “Good-by.  I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope.  Remember, Patti is singing.”

As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, [51] and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.  He waited impatiently for him to go.  The man seemed to take an interminable time about everything.