This letter of the son seemed to me appalling. My guess was right; it was he
who was speaking through Oscar; the threat of shooting at sight came from him.
I did not then understand all the circumstances; I had not met Lady Queensberry.
I could not have imagined how she had suffered at the hands of her husband--a
charming, cultivated woman, with exquisite taste in literature and art; a woman
of the most delicate, aspen-like sensibilities and noble generosities, coupled
with that violent, coarse animal with the hot eyes and combative nature. Her
married life had been a martyrdom. Naturally the children had all taken her
side in the quarrel, and Lord Alfred Douglas, her especial favourite, had
practically identified himself with her, which explains to some extent, though
nothing can justify, the unnatural animosity of his letter. The letter showed
me that the quarrel was far deeper, far bitterer than I had imagined--one of
those dreadful family quarrels, where the intimate knowledge each has of the
other whips anger to madness. All I could do was to warn Oscar.

"It's the old, old story," I said. "You are putting your hand between the
bark and the tree, and you will suffer for it." But he would not or could not
see it.

"What is one to do with such a madman?" he asked pitiably.

"Avoid him," I replied, "as you would avoid a madman, who wanted to fight with
you; or conciliate him; there is nothing else to do."

He would not be warned. A little later the matter came up again. At the first
production of "The Importance of Being Earnest" Lord Queensberry appeared at the
theatre carrying a large bouquet of turnips and carrots. What the meaning was
of those vegetables only the man himself and his like could divine. I asked
Oscar about the matter. He seemed annoyed but on the whole triumphant.