over the word, "and I told him so."

I looked at the man but could not speak; indeed there was nothing to be
said. Surely at last, I thought, Oscar Wilde has reached the lowest
depth. I could think of nothing but Oscar; this hard, small, bitter
nature made Oscar's suffering plain to me.

"As I can do no good," I said, "do you mind letting me sleep? I'm simply
tired to death."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking for his hat; "will you come out in the
morning and see the 'gees'?"

"I don't think so," I replied, "I'm incapable of a resolution now, I'm
so tired I would rather sleep. I think I'll go up to Paris in the
morning. I have something rather urgent to do."

He said "Good night" and went away.

I lay awake, my eyes prickling with sorrow and sympathy for poor Oscar,
insulted in his misery and destitution, outraged and trodden on by the
man he had loved, by the man who had thrust him into the Pit....[36]

I made up my mind to go to Oscar at once and try to comfort him a
little. After all, I thought, another fifty pounds or so wouldn't make a
great deal of difference to me, and I dwelt on the many delightful hours
I had passed with him, hours of gay talk and superb intellectual
enjoyment.

I went up by the morning train to Paris, and drove across the river to
Oscar's hotel.

He had two rooms, a small sitting-room and a still smaller bedroom
adjoining. He was lying half-dressed on the bed as I entered. The rooms
affected me unpleasantly. They were ordinary, mean little French rooms,
furnished without taste; the usual mahogany chairs, gilt clock on the
mantelpiece and a preposterous bilious paper on the walls. What struck
me was the disorder everywhere; books all over the round table; books on
the chairs; books on the floor and higgledy-piggledy, here a pair of
socks, there a hat and cane, and on the floor his overcoat. The sense of
order and neatness which he used to have in his rooms at Tite Street was
utterly lacking. He was not living here, intent on making the best of
things; he was merely existing without plan or purpose.

I told him I wanted him to come to lunch. While he was finishing
dressing it came to me that his clothes had undergone much the same
change as his dwelling. In his golden days in London he had been a good
deal of a dandy; he usually wore white waistcoats at night; was
particular about the flowers in his buttonhole, his gloves and cane. Now
he was decently dressed and that was all; as far be