It was after dawn when he came home. As he passed the portrait he stopped, puzzled. In the dim light the face seemed a little changed. The expression looked different — there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. He lit a lamp and looked again. It was true. The thing was horrible and clear. His wish had been answered: the picture had begun to carry his sins. He resolved at once to go back to Sibyl, to be good, to marry her. But at noon Lord Henry came in with the news. Sibyl Vane was dead. She had swallowed something in her dressing room that night, and the inquest would call it an accident. Dorian's first feeling was horror, and his second was a strange, cold interest. "It is like a wonderful ending to a play," said Lord Henry. "You must not think of it as a real death. Mourn for her as an artist, and go to the opera tonight." And Dorian went.