Dorian Gray had fancied he had fallen in love. An actress, she was, a beautiful, empty slip of a girl who played in a rather dingy little theater.

He was obsessed for a month or so, and the night after he had proposed, he took his two closest friends, Basil Hallward and Lord Henry Wotton, to watch her play Juliet.

She was perfectly dull that night, and he had felt his heart fill with disgust for the face he had so passionately kissed the night before.

He. of course, emotionlessly broke things off, and the next morning, he had received news from Henry that she had committed.

He was shocked, of course, and when you had called unexpectedly, you found him in his study pacing the onyx tile.

"Sibyl Vane...she's dead. She's dead because of me," he gasped, turning to you, angelic blonde curls in disarray, face flushed with some unknown emotion.