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‘My dear Basil, how do I know?’ murmured Dorian, sipping some paleyellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. ‘I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and what you are painting.’

‘You went to the Opera?’ said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. ‘You went to the Opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!’

‘Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!’ cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. ‘You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.’

‘You call yesterday the past?’

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