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 below the average as he had been above it.  Clearly, he had let go of himself and no longer took pleasure in the vanities:  it seemed to me a bad sign.

I had always thought of him as very healthy, likely to live till sixty or seventy; but he had no longer any hold on himself and that depressed me; some spring of life seemed broken in him.  Bosie Douglas’ second betrayal had been the coup de grace.

In the carriage he was preoccupied, out of sorts, and immediately began to apologise.

“I shall be poor company, Frank,” he warned me with quivering lips.

The fragrant summer air in the Champs Elysees seemed to revive him a little, but he was evidently lost in bitter reflections and scarcely noticed where he was going.  From time to time he sighed heavily as if oppressed.  I talked as well as I could of this and that, tried to lure him away from the hateful subject that I knew must be in his mind; but all in vain.  Towards the end of the lunch he said gravely: 

“I want you to tell me something, Frank; I want you to tell me honestly if you think I am in the wrong.  I wish I could think I was....  You know I spoke to you the other day about Bosie; he is rich now and he is throwing his money away with both hands in racing.

“I asked him to settle L1,500 or L2,000 on me to buy me an annuity, or to do something that would give me L150 a year.  You said you did not care to ask him, so I did.  I told him it was really his duty to do it at once, and he turned round and lashed me savagely with his tongue.  He called me dreadful names.  Said dreadful things to me, Frank.  I did not think it was possible to suffer more than I suffered in prison, but he has left me bleeding ...” and the fine eyes filled with tears.  Seeing that I remained silent, he cried out: