with the hot eyes and combative nature.  Her married life had been a martyrdom.  Naturally the children had all taken her side in the quarrel, and Lord Alfred Douglas, her especial favourite, had practically identified himself with her, which explains to some extent, though nothing can justify, the unnatural animosity of his letter.  The letter showed me that the quarrel was far deeper, far bitterer than I had imagined—­one of those dreadful family quarrels, where the intimate knowledge each has of the other whips anger to madness.  All I could do was to warn Oscar.

“It’s the old, old story,” I said.  “You are putting your hand between the bark and the tree, and you will suffer for it.”  But he would not or could not see it.

“What is one to do with such a madman?” he asked pitiably.

“Avoid him,” I replied, “as you would avoid a madman, who wanted to fight with you; or conciliate him; there is nothing else to do.”

He would not be warned.  A little later the matter came up again.  At the first production of “The Importance of Being Earnest” Lord Queensberry appeared at the theatre carrying a large bouquet of turnips and carrots.  What the meaning was of those vegetables only the man himself and his like could divine.  I asked Oscar about the matter.  He seemed annoyed but on the whole triumphant.

“Queensberry,” he said, “had engaged a stall at the St. James’s Theatre, no doubt to kick up a row; but as soon as I heard of it I got Alick (George Alexander) to send him back his money.  On the night of the first performance Queensberry appeared carrying a large bundle of carrots.  He was refused admittance at the box-office, and when he tried to enter the gallery the police would not let him in.  He must be mad, Frank, don’t you think?  I am glad he was foiled.”

“He is insanely violent,” I said, “he will keep on attacking you.”

“But what can I do, Frank?”

“Don’t ask for advice you won’t take,” I replied.  “There’s a French proverb I’ve always liked:  ‘In love and war don’t seek counsel.’  But for God’s sake, don’t drift.  Stop while you can.”

But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order to stop, and he was incapable of such energy.  The wild horses of Fate had run away with the light chariot of his fortune, and what the end would be no one could foresee.  It came with appalling suddenness.

One evening, in February, ’95, I heard that the Marquis of Queensberry had left an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club.  My informant added gleefully that now Oscar would have to face the music and we’d all see what was in him.  There was no malice in this, just an Englishman’s pleasure in a desperate fight, and curiosity as to the issue.

A little later I received a letter from Oscar, asking me if he could call on me that afternoon.  I stayed in, and about four o’clock he came to see me.

At first he used the old imperious mask, which he had lately accustomed himself to wear.