"Queensberry," he said, "had engaged a stall at the St. James's Theatre,
no doubt to kick up a row; but as soon as I heard of it I got Alick (George
Alexander) to send him back his money. On the night of the first performance
Queensberry appeared carrying a large bundle of carrots. He was refused
admittance at the box-office, and when he tried to enter the gallery the
police would not let him in. He must be mad, Frank, don't you think? I am
glad he was foiled."

"He is insanely violent," I said, "he will keep on attacking you."

"But what can I do, Frank?"

"Don't ask for advice you won't take," I replied. "There's a French proverb
I've always liked: 'In love and war don't seek counsel.' But for God's sake,
don't drift. Stop while you can."

But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order to stop, and he
was incapable of such energy. The wild horses of Fate had run away with the
light chariot of his fortune, and what the end would be no one could foresee.
It came with appalling suddenness.

One evening, in February, '95, I heard that the Marquis of Queensberry had left
an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club. My informant added gleefully
that now Oscar would have to face the music and we'd all see what was in him.
There was no malice in this, just an Englishman's pleasure in a desperate fight,
and curiosity as to the issue.

A little later I received a letter from Oscar, asking me if he could call on me
that afternoon. I stayed in, and about four o'clock he came to see me.