"Oh, Lady Helena there you are."

"My dear Mr. Gray, you really mustn't shut yourself away like this."

"Tell me what is going on in town? I have not been to the club for ages."

"Everyone is still debating the mysterious disappearance of poor Sage. It is the talk of the town."

"Shouldn't they be tired of that topic by now? They usually tire of such things so quickly."

"Unfortunately, the British public seems quite fascinated with the fate of famous artists and they continue to focus on it. Despite other such news such as Beatrice Ashford's suicide and my own divorce case, they are quite fascinated with Sage's mysterious exodus. Scotland Yard insists she boarded the train to Dover at midnight, the ferry at Calais, and the train to Paris. The French police are adamant that she never even arrived in Paris. Some people have made claims to have seen her leading an artistic revival in San Francisco."

Dorian examined her eyes closely. "What do you think happened to Sage?"

"I haven't the foggiest. Perhaps she is hiding herself away from the world. She may have simply forgotten her plans and ended up painting some great work for months at a time. Or she is dead and I no longer want to think of her. Death is the only thing I have ever been afraid of."

"Why is that?"

Lady Helena paused to light an expensive looking cigarette. "Because, one can survive anything except for death. Now let us take our coffee in the music room—you must play some Chopin for me. My husband ran away with a woman who played Chopin quite exquisitely. Poor man, I was so fond of him and the house is terribly lonely without him."

Dorian stood and together the two walked into the parlor. Lady Helena seated herself in a comfortable leather chair and looked expectantly at Dorian as he seated himself at the piano in the corner. It was a Steinway Grand with rosewood finishes, dark red cabriole legs, and gold edging on the pedal lyre and music rack.

Dorian rested his fingers on the ivory piano keys. Before beginning to play, he looked over warily at Lady Helena. "What if Sage was murdered?"

Lady Helena yawned. "Sage was popular, but terribly dull. She was not clever enough for enemies. Then again, there are some dangerous places in Paris, but Sage was not likely to visit any of them. She rarely strayed long from her canvas and brushes."

Dorian was quiet for a moment. "What if I told you—that it was I who murdered Sage?"

She laughed in a slow, deliberate way. "It is not possible for you to commit a murder, Mr. Gray. It is something far too vulgar for you and reserved for the lower classes. They take the same pleasure such a beastly act as you and I might in viewing a complex painting. Though, I suppose anything can become pleasurable if one repeats the act too frequently. Let us talk of Sage no longer. It would be highly improbable for her to meet such a romantic end as that. Far more likely that she had too much wine to drink and fell off an omnibus and broke her neck. Someone has simply covered it up out of embarrassment."

Dorian sighed and began playing Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15, as Lady Helena strolled across the room. "Besides, her art had suffered much in recent years. I don't think she would have produced the same quality of work as when the two of you were friends. She lost something when the two of you stopped spending time together. Why was it that you became estranged again? I suppose that she bored you. Where did that exquisite portrait she did of you and that wolf pup ever get to? I haven't seen it since it was finished. Now I remember. You said that you had sent it down to the Selby and it was stolen? What a pity. It was quite the masterpiece and I would have loved to buy it to have something to remember dear Sage by."

"How can you speak like that? The whole memory is hateful."

"I don't mean to distress you. I was only wondering. I have been thinking of so many strange things of late. What does it profit someone if they gain the whole world, yet lose their soul?"

Dorian took his hand from the keys and stared at his friend. "Why do you ask me that?"

Lady Helena looked disappointed. "My dear Mr. Gray, I was only curious if you might give me the answer. I have always thought that art had a soul, but mankind clearly does not."

Dorian lowered his head and began to softly play Mazurkas, Op. 17. "How wrong you are. The soul is disastrously real. It can be bought and sold, bartered and poisoned like a loaf of bread. I know without a doubt that each of us has a soul."

"How serious you have become. I never thought you would give into the superstitions that plague this world. Do play me something and then tell me as you play, in a lowered voice, how is it you have kept your youth preserved for all of these years? There must be some secret. I am only a decade older than you and I am worn, wrinkled, and faded. But you have never looked more charming or more wonderful. You look just as you did on the first day that I met you. I wish you would tell me your secret. I would do anything to have my youth back. I have so many sorrows that you know nothing of. What an exquisite life you have. The world blossoms at your feet and you have drunk deepest of it all. Yet, for all your experience you are completely unmarred."

"Don't say that. I am quite changed."

"No, you are the same. Oh, how I wish I could change places with you. Everyone always has and always will worship you. Your life is your art. You have set yourself and your very being to music and every day is a new sonnet in your world of poetry."

Dorian stood up and went to the window. He looked out on the full moon hanging in the sky. "There is much you don't know about me as well."

"Why have you stopped playing? The music was so beautiful tonight—better than you have ever played. If you are tired then I will bid you good night. Tomorrow—we will go tomorrow night to the club."

"Very well. Good night then."

Lady Helena rose and paused in the doorway, as if to say something more. Then she merely sighed and walked out.