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Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double

chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up

the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to

find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through

which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to

think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate

letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and

accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild

words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in

self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else

has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest,

that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he

felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord

Henry's voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at

once. I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this."