At first he used the old imperious mask, which he had lately accustomed himself
to wear.

"I am bringing an action against Queensberry, Frank," he began gravely, "for
criminal libel. He is a mere wild beast. My solicitors tell me that I am
certain to win. But they say some of the things I have written will be brought
up against me in court. Now you know all I have written. Would you in your
position as editor of "The Fortnightly" come and give evidence for me, testify
for instance that 'Dorian Gray' is not immoral?"

"Yes," I replied at once, "I should be perfectly willing, and I could say more
than that; I could say that you are one of the very few men I have ever known
whose talk and whose writings were vowed away from grossness of any sort."

"Oh! Frank, would you? It would be so kind of you," he cried out. "My
solicitors said I ought to ask you, but they were afraid you would not like to
come: your evidence will win the case. It is good of you." His whole face was
shaken; he turned away to hide the tears.

"Anything I can do, Oscar," I said, "I shall do with pleasure, and, as you know,
to the uttermost; but I want you to consider the matter carefully. An English
court of law gives me no assurance of a fair trial or rather I am certain that
in matters of art or morality an English court is about the worst tribunal in
the civilised world."

He shook his head impatiently.

"I cannot help it, I cannot alter it," he said.

"You must listen to me," I insisted. "You remember the Whistler and Ruskin