"'Was he beautiful?' asked the River.

"'Who should know that better than you?' said the flowers, 'for every day, lying
on your bank, he would mirror his beauty in your waters.'"

Oscar paused here, and then went on:

"'If I loved him,' replied the River, 'it is because, when he hung over me,
I saw the reflection of my own loveliness in his eyes.'"

After lunch I took him aside and tried to warn him, told him that unpleasant
stories were being put about against him; but he paid no heed to me.

"All envy, Frank, and malice. What do I care? I go to Clumber this summer;
besides I am doing another play which I rather like. I always knew that play-
writing was my province. As a youth I tried to write plays in verse; that was
my mistake. Now I know better; I'm sure of myself and of success."

Somehow or other in spite of his apparent assurance I felt he was in danger
and I doubted his quality as a fighter. But after all it was not my business:
wilful man must have his way.

It seems to me now that my mistrust dated from the second paper war with
Whistler, wherein to the astonishment of everyone Oscar did not come off
victorious. As soon as he met with opposition his power of repartee seemed to
desert him and Whistler, using mere rudeness and man-of-the-world sharpness,
held the field. Oscar was evidently not a born fighter.

I asked him once how it was he let Whistler off so lightly. He shrugged his
shoulders and showed some irritation.