ouldlullthemoralseosleep.Butherewasavisiblesymbolofthedegradationofsin.Herewasanever-presentsignoftheruinmenbroughtupontheirsouls.

    Threeoclockstrudfour,andthehalf-hitsdoublechime,butDraydidnotstir.Hewastryingtogatherupthescarletthreadsoflifeandtoweavethemintoapattern;tofindhiswaythroughthesanguinelabyrinthofpassihwhichhewaswandering.Hedidnotknowwhattodo,orwhattothink.Finally,hewehetableandwroteapassioertothegirlhehadloved,implherfivenessandacghimselfofmadness.Hecoveredpageafterpageordsofsorrowandwilderwordsofpain.Thereisaluxuryinself-reproach.Whenweblameourselves,wefeelthatnooneelsehasarighttoblameus.Itisthefession,notthepriest,thatgivesusabsolution.WhenDorianhadfiheletter,hefeltthathehadbeenfiven.

    Suddenlytherecameaknocktothedoor,andheheardLordHenrysvoiceoutside."Mydearboy,Imustseeyou.Letmeinatonce.Itbearyourshuttingyourselfuplikethis."

    Hemadenoafirst,butremainedquitestill.Theknogstilltinuedandgrewlouder.Yes,itwasbettertoletLordHenryin,andtoexplaintohimthenewlifehewasgoingtolead,toquarrelwithhimifitbeecessarytoquarrel,topartifpartingwasiable.Hejumpedup,drewtheshastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor.

    "Iamsosorryforitall,Dorian,"saidLordHenryasheentered."Butyoumustnotthinktoomuchaboutit."

    "DoyoumeanaboutSibylVane?"askedthelad.

    "Yes,ofcourse,"answeredLordHenry,sinkingintoachairandslowlypullingoffhisyellowgloves."Itisdreadful,fromonepointofview,butitwasnotyourfault.Tellme,didyoug