The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art.
He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.
“Well, Dorian,” he said at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after today. I only trust your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”
Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he answered.
“But surely she did?”
“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to anyone. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her.
You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words.”