es. tedious. You knoue and all t kind of t Sibyl ragedy. S nig you say, s migo t. tyr about ic uselessness of martyrdom, all its ed beauty. But, as I not t suffered. If you erday at a particular moment-- about five, perer to six-- you , I passed a repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are a, Basil. You come do is cic person! You remind me of a story old me about a certain p y years of rying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust laered--I forget exactly . ely noto do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misant to console me, teaco forget from a proper artistic point of vie not Gautier e about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and c delig like t young man you told me of ogeto say t yelloin could console one for all tiful t one can touce surroundings, luxury, pomp--to be got from all t tistic temperament t te, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. to become tator of ones o my talking to you like t realized s, ne, but you must not like me less. I am c you must al you are better t stronger-- you are too muc you are better. And o be toget leave me, Basil, and dont quarrel I am. to be said.quot;
ter felt strangely moved. tely dear to y turning point in . bear ter all, was good, so muc was noble.
quot;ell, Dorian,quot; lengt;I speak to you again about ter to-day. I only trust your name be mentioned in connection . t is to take place ternoon. ;
Dorian s tion of t;inquest.quot; t everyt;t kno; he answered.
quot;But surely s;
quot;Only my Cian name, and t I am quite sure sioned to any one. Sold me once t to learn ty of do me a dra;
quot;I ry and do somet you must come and sit to me yourself again. I cant get on you.quot;
quot;I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!quot; arting back.
ter stared at ;My dear boy, ; ;Do you mean to say you dont like ? Let me look at it. It is t ta