the usual boy imaginings; but I did not indulge in them excessively.

"At Portora nine out of ten boys only thought of football or cricket
or rowing. Nearly every one went in for athletics--running and jumping
and so forth; no one appeared to care for sex. We were healthy young
barbarians and that was all."

"Did you go in for games?" I asked.

"No," Oscar replied smiling, "I never liked to kick or be kicked."

"Surely you went about with some younger boy, did you not, to whom you
told your dreams and hopes, and whom you grew to care for?"

The question led to an intimate personal confession, which may take
its place here.

"It is strange you should have mentioned it," he said. "There was one
boy, and," he added slowly, "one peculiar incident. It occurred in my
last year at Portora. The boy was a couple of years younger than I--we
were great friends; we used to take long walks together and I talked
to him interminably. I told him what I should have done had I been
Alexander, or how I'd have played king in Athens, had I been
Alcibiades. As early as I can remember I used to identify myself with
every distinguished character I read about, but when I was fifteen or
sixteen I noticed with some wonder that I could think of myself as
Alcibiades or Sophocles more easily than as Alexander or Cæsar. The
life of books had begun to interest me more than real life....

"My friend had a wonderful gift for listening. I was so occupied with