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 old, 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 listlessly.  “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-bye.  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, 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 over everything.

As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back.  No; there was no further change in the picture.  It had received the news of Sibyl Vane’s death before he had known of it himself.  It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred.  The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was.  Or was it indifferent to results?  Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul?  He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.