“My dear Basil!  Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident?  Of course she killed herself It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age.  As a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives.  They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious.  You know what I mean,—­middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing.  How different Sibyl was!  She lived her finest tragedy.  She was always a heroine.  The last night she played—­the night you saw her—­she acted badly because she had known the reality of love.  When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died.  She passed again into the sphere of art.  There is something of the martyr about her.  Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of [54] martyrdom, all its wasted beauty.  But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered.  If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment,—­about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six,—­you would have found me in tears.  Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through.  I suffered immensely, then it passed away.  I cannot repeat an emotion.  No one can, except sentimentalists.  And you are awfully unjust, Basil.  You come down here to console me.  That is charming of you.  You find me consoled, and you are furious.  How like a sympathetic person!  You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered,—­I forget exactly what it was.  Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment.  He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope.  And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view.  Was it not Gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts?  I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase.  Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlowe together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life.  I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle.  Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp,—­there is much to be got from all these.  But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me.  To become the spectator of one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life.  I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this.  You have not realized how I have developed.  I was a school-boy when you knew me.  I am a man now.  I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas.  I am different, but you must not like me less.  I am changed, but you must always be my friend.  Of course I am very fond of Harry.  But I know that you are better than he is.  You are not stronger,—­you are too much afraid of life,—­but you are better.  And how happy we used to be together!  Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me.  I am what I am.  There is nothing more to be said.”