One day I was lunching at the Savoy, and while talking to the head waiter,
Cesari, who afterwards managed the Elysee Palace Hotel in Paris, I thought I saw
Oscar and Douglas go out together. Being a little short-sighted, I asked:

"Isn't that Mr. Oscar Wilde?"

"Yes," said Cesari, "and Lord Alfred Douglas. We wish they would not come here;
it does us a lot of harm."

"How do you mean?" I asked sharply.

"Some people don't like them," the quick Italian answered immediately.

"Oscar Wilde," I remarked casually, "is a great friend of mine," but the super-
subtle Italian was already warned.

"A clever writer, I believe," he said, smiling in bland acquiescence.

This incident gave me warning, strengthened again in me the exact apprehension
and suspicion which the Douglas letter had bred. Oscar I knew was too self-
centred, went about too continually with admirers to have any understanding of
popular feeling. He would be the last man to realize how fiercely hate, malice
and envy were raging against him. I wanted to warn him; but hardly knew how to
do it effectively and without offence: I made up my mind to keep my eyes open
and watch an opportunity.

A little later I gave a dinner at the Savoy and asked him to come. He was
delightful, his vivacious gaiety as exhilarating as wine. But he was more like
a Roman Emperor than ever: he had grown fat: he ate and drank too much; not that
he was intoxicated, but he became flushed, and in spite of his gay and genial