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i cannot say that i think much of your great renunciation。 even as a beginning； it is poor。 besides； how do you know that hetty isnt floating at the present moment in some starlit mill…pond； with lovely water…lilies round her； like ophelia？〃
〃i cant bear this； harry！ you mock at everything； and then suggest the most serious tragedies。 i am sorry i told you now。 i dont care what you say to me。 i know i was right in acting as i did。 poor hetty！ as i rode past the farm this morning； i saw her white face at the window； like a spray of jasmine。 dont let us talk about it any more； and dont try to persuade me that the first good action i have done for years； the first little bit of self…sacrifice i have ever known； is really a sort of sin。 i want to be better。 i am going to be better。 tell me something about yourself。 what is going on in town？ i have not been to the club for days。〃
〃the people are still discussing poor basils disappearance。〃
〃i should have thought they had got tired of that by this time；〃 said dorian； pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly。
〃my dear boy； they have only been talking about it for six weeks； and the british public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months。 they have been very fortunate lately； however。 they have had my own divorce…case and alan campbells suicide。 now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist。 scotland yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left for paris by the midnight train on the ninth of november was poor basil； and the french police declare that basil never arrived in paris at all。 i suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in san francisco。 it is an odd thing； but every one who disappears is said to be seen at san francisco。 it must be a delightful city； and possess all the attractions of the next world。〃
〃what do you think has happened to basil？〃 asked dorian； holding up his burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly。
〃i have not the slightest idea。 if basil chooses to hide himself； it is no business of mine。 if he is dead； i dont want to think about him。 death is the only thing that ever terrifies me。 i hate it。〃
〃why？〃 said the younger man wearily。
〃because；〃 said lord henry； passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box； 〃one can survive everything nowadays except that。 death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away。 let us have our coffee in the music…room； dorian。 you must play chopin to me。 the man with whom my wife ran away played chopin exquisitely。 poor victoria！ i was very fond of her。 the house is rather lonely without her。 of course； married life is merely a habit； a bad habit。 but then one regrets the loss even of ones worst habits。 perhaps one regrets them the most。 they are such an essential part of ones personality。〃
dorian said nothing； but rose from the table； and passing into the next room； sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white and black ivory of the keys。 after the coffee had been brought in； he stopped； and looking over at lord henry； said； 〃harry； did it ever occur to you that basil was murdered？〃
lord henry yawned。 〃basil was very popular； and always wore a waterbury watch。 why should he have been murdered？ he was not clever enough to have enemies。 of course； he had a wonderful genius for painting。 but a man can paint like velasquez and yet be as dull as possible。 basil was really rather dull。 he only interested me once； and that was when he told me； years ago； that he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art。〃
〃i was very fond of basil；〃 said dorian with a note of sadness in his voice。 〃but dont people say that he was murdered？〃
〃oh； some of the papers do。 it does not seem to me to be at all probable。 i know there are dreadful places in paris； but basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them。 he had no curiosity。 it was his chief defect。〃
〃what would you say； harry； if i told you that i had murdered basil？〃 said the younger man。 he watched him intently after he had spoken。
〃i would say； my dear fellow； that you were posing for a character that doesnt suit you。 all crime is vulgar； just as all vulgarity is crime。 it is not in you； dorian； to mit a murder。 i am sorry if i hurt your vanity by saying so； but i assure you it is true。 crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders。 i dont blame them in the smallest degree。 i should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us； simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations。〃
〃a method of procuring sensations？ do you think； then； that a man who has once mitted a murder could possibly do the same crime again？ dont tell me that。〃
〃oh！ anything bees a pleasure if one does it too often；〃 cried lord henry； laughing。 〃that is one of the most important secrets of life。 i should fancy； however； that murder is always a mistake。 one should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner。 but let us pass from poor basil。 i wish i could believe that he had e to such a really romantic end as you suggest； but i cant。 i dare say he fell into the seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the scandal。 yes： i should fancy that was his end。 i see him lying now on his back under those dull…green waters； with the heavy barges floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair。 do you know； i dont think he would have done much more good work。 during the last ten years his painting had gone off very much。〃
dorian heaved a sigh； and lord henry strolled across the room and began to stroke the head of a curious java parrot； a large； grey…plumaged bird with pink crest and tail； that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch。 as his pointed fingers touched it； it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black； glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards and forwards。
〃yes；〃 he continued； turning round and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket； 〃his painting had quite gone off。 it seemed to me to have lost something。 it had lost an ideal。 when you and he ceased to be great friends； he ceased to be a great artist。 what was it separated you？ i suppose he bored you。 if so； he never forgave you。 its a habit bores have。 by the way； what has bee of that wonderful portrait he did of you？ i dont think i have ever seen it since he finished it。 oh！ i remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to selby； and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way。 you never got it back？ what a pity！ it was really a masterpiece。 i remember i wanted to buy it。 i wish i had now。 it belonged to basils best period。 since then； his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative british artist。 did you advertise for it？ you should。〃
〃i forget；〃 said dorian。 〃i suppose i did。 but i never really liked it。 i am sorry i sat for it。 the memory of the thing is hateful to me。 why do you talk of it？ it used to remind me of those curious lines in some playhamlet； i thinkhow do they run？
like the painting of a sorrow；
a face without a heart。
yes： that is what it was like。〃
lord henry laughed。 〃if a man treats life artistically； his brain is his heart；〃 he answered； sinking into an arm…chair。
dorian gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano。 〃like the painting of a sorrow；〃 he repeated； 〃a face without a heart。〃
the elder man lay back and looked at him with half…closed eyes。 〃by the way； dorian；〃 he said after a pause； 〃what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and losehow does the quotation run？ his own soul？〃
the music jarred； and dorian gray started and stared at his friend。 〃why do you ask me that； harry？〃
〃my dear fellow；〃 said lord henry； elevating his eyebrows in surprise； 〃i asked you because i thought you might be able to give me an answer。 that is all。 i was going through the park last sunday； and close by the marble arch there stood a little crowd of shabby…looking people listening to some vulgar street…preacher。 as i passed by； i heard the man yelling out that question to his audience。 it struck me as being rather dramatic。 london is very rich in curious effects of that kind。 a wet sunday； an uncouth christian in a mackintosh； a ring of sickly white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas； and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lipsit was really very good in its way； quite a suggestion。 i thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul； but that man had not。 i am afraid； however； he would not have understood me。〃
〃dont； harry。 the soul is a terrible reality。 it can be bought； and sold； and bartered away。 it can be poisoned； or made perfect。 there is a soul in each one of us。 i know it。〃
〃do you feel quite sure of that； dorian？〃
〃quite sure。〃
〃ah！ then it must be an illusion。 the things one feels absolutely certain about are never true。 that is the fatality of faith； and the lesson of romance。 how grave you are！ dont be so serious。 what have you or i to do with the superstitions of