“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want?”
“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly.
“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself—”
“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.
“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of course she killed herself.”
The elder man buried his face in his hands.
“How fearful,” he muttered, and a shudder ran through him.
“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. 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