became defiant. I noticed one day that he had signed himself, Oscar O'Flahertie
Wilde, I think under some verses which he had contributed years before to his
College magazine. I asked him jokingly what the O'Flahertie stood for. To my
astonishment he answered me gravely:

"The O'Flaherties were kings in Ireland, and I have a right to the name; I am
descended from them."

I could not help it; I burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing at, Frank?" he asked with a touch of annoyance.

"It seems humorous to me," I explained, "that Oscar Wilde should want to be
an O'Flahertie," and as I spoke a picture of the greatest of the O'Flaherties,
with bushy head and dirty rags, warming enormous hairy legs before a smoking
peat-fire, flashed before me. I think something of the sort must have
occurred to Oscar, too, for, in spite of his attempt to be grave, he could not
help laughing.

"It's unkind of you, Frank," he said. "The Irish were civilised and Christians
when the English kept themselves warm with tattooings."

He could not help telling one in familiar talk of Clumber or some other great
house where he had been visiting; he was intoxicated with his own popularity,
a little surprised, perhaps, to find that he had won fame so easily and on the
primrose path, but one could forgive him everything, for he talked more
delightfully than ever.

It is almost inexplicable, but nevertheless true that life tries all of us,
tests every weak point to breaking, and sets off and exaggerates our powers.