r, but I never saw him in such company
before."

"Didn't you?" remarked Gattie quietly; "he was well known at Oxford. I
was at the 'Varsity with him. His reputation was always
rather--'_high_,' shall we call it?"

I wanted to forget the scene and blot it out of my memory, and
remember my friend as I knew him at his best. But that Cockney boy
would not be banned; he leered there with rosy cheeks, hair plastered
down in a love-lock on his forehead, and low cunning eyes. I felt
uncomfortable. I would not think of it. I recalled the fact that in
all our talks I had never heard Oscar use a gross word. His mind, I
said to myself, is like Spenser's, vowed away from coarseness and
vulgarity: he's the most perfect intellectual companion in the world.
He may have wanted to talk to the boys just to see what effect his
talk would have on them. His vanity is greedy enough to desire even
such applause as theirs.... Of course, that was the
explanation--vanity. My affection for him, tormented by doubt, had
found at length a satisfactory solution. It was the artist in him, I
said to myself, that wanted a model.

But why not boys of his own class? The answer suggested itself; boys
of his own class could teach him nothing; his own boyhood would
supply him with all the necessary information about well-bred youth.
But if he wanted a gutter-snipe in one of his plays, he would have to
find a gutter-lad and paint him from life. That was probably the
truth, I concluded. So satisfied was I with my discovery that I
developed it to Gattie; but he would not hear of it.

"Gattie has nothing of the artist in him," I decided, "and therefore
cannot understand." And I went on arguing, if Gattie were right, why
_two_ boys? It seemed evident to me that my reading of the riddle was
the only plausible one. Besides it left my affection unaffected and
free. Still, the giggle, the plastered oily hair and the venal leering
eyes came back to me again and again in spite of myself.

CHAPTER XI

There is a secret apprehension in man counselling sobriety and
moderation, a fear born of expediency distinct from conscience, which
is ethical; though it seems to be closely connected with conscience
acting, as it does, by warnings and prohibitions. The story of
Polycrates and his ring is a symbol of the instinctive feeling that
extraordinary good fortune is perilous and can not endure.

A year or so after the first meeting between Oscar Wilde and Lord
Al