ity or
the immorality of an artist is to ask the court to do what it is
wholly unfit to do. There is not a judge on the bench whose opinion on
such a matter is worth a moment's consideration, and the jury are a
thousand years behind the judge."

"That may be true, Frank; but I cannot help it."

"Don't forget," I persisted, "all British prejudices will be against
you. Here is a father, the fools will say, trying to protect his young
son. If he has made a mistake, it is only through excess of laudable
zeal; you would have to prove yourself a religious maniac in order to
have any chance against him in England."

"How terrible you are, Frank. You know it is Bosie Douglas who wants
me to fight, and my solicitors tell me I shall win."

"Solicitors live on quarrels. Of course they want a case that will
bring hundreds if not thousands of pounds into their pockets. Besides
they like the fight. They will have all the kudos of it and the fun,
and you will pay the piper. For God's sake don't be led into it: that
way madness lies."

"But, Frank," he objected weakly, "how can I sit down under such an
insult. I must do something."

"That's another story," I replied. "Let us by all means weigh what is
to be done. But let us begin by putting the law-courts out of the
question. Don't forget that you are challenged to mortal combat. Let
us consider how the challenge should be met, but we won't fight under
Queensberry rules because Queensberry happens to be the aggressor.
Don't forget that if you lose and Queensberry goes free, everyone will
hold that you have been guilty of nameless vice. Put the law courts
out of your head. Whatever else you do, you must not bring an action
for criminal libel against Queensberry. You are sure to lose it; you
haven't a dog's chance, and the English despise the beaten--_vae
victis_! Don't commit suicide."

Nothing was determined when the time came to part.

This conversation took place, I believe, on the Friday or Saturday. I
spent the whole of Sunday trying to find out what was known about
Oscar Wilde and what would be brought up against him. I wanted to know
too how he was regarded in an ordinary middle-class English home.

My investigations had appalling results. Everyone assumed that Oscar
Wilde was guilty of the worst that had ever been alleged against him;
the very people who received him in their houses condemned him
pitilessly and, as I approached the fountain-head of information, the
c