ening jaws, as
dogs worry a rabbit. Yet they call themselves men. It is appalling."

The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron
and rosy curtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon,
closer, a mere wash of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin
veil like fingers pointing upward. On the left the dome of St. Paul's
hung like a grey bubble over the city; on the right the twin towers of
Westminster with the river and bridge which Wordsworth sang. Peace and
beauty brooding everywhere, and down there lost in the mist the "rat
pit" that men call the Courts of Justice. There they judge their
fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone could
judge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we
all come of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes
delight in succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.

* * * * *

The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled
me with self-contempt. Of course, I said to myself, if I knew him
better I should be able to help him. Would vanity do anything? It was
his mainspring; I could but try. He might be led by the hope of making
Englishmen talk of him again, talk of him as one who had dared to
escape; wonder what he would do next. I would try, and I did try. But
his dejection foiled me: his dislike of the struggle seemed to grow
from day to day.

He would scarcely listen to me. He was counting the days to the trial:
willing to accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery and
shame seemed better than doubt and waiting. He surprised me by saying:

"A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence:
the middle course, that English Judges always take: the sort of
compromise they think safe?" and his eyes searched my face for
agreement.

I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises are
usually bargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein to
their intuitive fear and hate.

But I would not discourage him. I repeated:

"You can win, Oscar, if you like:--" my litany to him. His wan
dejected smile brought tears to my eyes.

* * * * *

"Don't you want to make them all speak of you and wonder at you again?
If you were in France, everyone would be asking: will he come back or
disappear altogether? or will he manifest himself henceforth in some
new