Take me away, Dorian--take me away with you, where we can be quite alone.
I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel,
but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian,
you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would
be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see
that."

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face.
"You have killed my love," he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer.
She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked
his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips.
He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried,
"you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination.
Now you don't even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect.
I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius
and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great
poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art.
You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid.
My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been!
You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again.
I will never think of you. I will never mention your name.
You don't know what you were to me, once. Why, once . . . Oh,
I can't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid
eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life.
How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!
Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made