invitations sent out to men, seven or eight were refused, three
or four telling me in all kindness that they would rather not meet
Oscar Wilde. This confirmed my worst fears: when Englishmen speak out
in this way the dislike must be near revolt.

I gave the lunch and saw plainly enough that my forebodings were
justified. Oscar was more self-confident, more contemptuous of
criticism, more gross of body than ever, but his talk did not suffer;
indeed, it seemed to improve. At this lunch he told the charming fable
of "Narcissus," which is certainly one of his most characteristic
short stories.

"When Narcissus died the Flowers of the Field were plunged in grief,
and asked the River for drops of water that they might mourn for him.

"'Oh,' replied the River, 'if only my drops of water were tears, I
should not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself--I loved him.'

"'How could you help loving Narcissus?' said the flowers, 'so
beautiful was he.'

"'Was he beautiful?' asked the River.

"'Who should know that better than you?' said the flowers, 'for every
day, lying on your bank, he would mirror his beauty in your waters.'"

Oscar paused here, and then went on:

"'If I loved him,' replied the River, 'it is because, when he hung
over me, I saw the reflection of my own loveliness in his eyes.'"

After lunch I took him aside and tried to warn him, told him that
unpleasant stories were being put about against him; but he paid no
heed to me.

"All envy, Frank, and malice. What do I care? I go to Clumber this
summer; besides I am doing another play which I rather like. I always
knew that play-writing was my province. As a youth I tried to write
plays in verse; that was my mistake. Now I know better; I'm sure of
myself and of success."

Somehow or other in spite of his apparent assurance I felt he was in
danger and I doubted his quality as a fighter. But after all it was
not my business: wilful man must have his way.

It seems to me now that my mistrust dated from the second paper war
with Whistler, wherein to the astonishment of everyone Oscar did not
come off victorious. As soon as he met with opposition his power of
repartee seemed to desert him and Whistler, using mere rudeness and
man-of-the-world sharpness, held the field. Oscar was evidently not a
born fighter.

I asked him once how it was he let Whistler off so lightly. He
shrugged his shoulders and showed some irritation.

"What could I say, Frank? Why shoul