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Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He

had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her

because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him.

She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of

infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his

feet sobbing like a little child. He remembered with what

callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that?

Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had suffered also.

During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had

lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was

well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had

wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear

sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought

of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have

some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told

him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were.