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Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its

cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its

blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself,

but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had

altered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into

grey. Its red and white roses would die. For every sin that he

committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he

would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him

the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He

would not see Lord Henry any more-would not, at any rate, listen

to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward's

garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible

things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry

her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She

must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been

selfish and cruel to her.