“You don’t know Willie,” he continued, “he has made my solicitors buy letters of mine; he has blackmailed me.”

“Whew!” I whistled.  “But in that case you’ll have no compunction in leaving him without saying ‘goodbye.’  Let’s go and get into the brougham.”

“No, no,” he repeated, “you don’t understand; I can’t go, I cannot go.”

“Do you mean it really?” I asked.  “Do you mean you will not come and spend a week yachting with me?”

“I cannot.”

I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage:  something of desolation and despair in his voice touched me:  I looked at him.  Tears were pouring down his face; he was the picture of misery, yet I could not move him.

“Come into the carriage,” I said, hoping that the swift wind in his face would freshen him up, give him a moment’s taste of the joy of living and sharpen the desire of freedom.

“Yes, Frank,” he said, “if you will take me to Oakley Street.”

“I would as soon take you to prison,” I replied; “but as you wish.”

The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen’s Gate.  The mist seemed to lend keenness to the air.  At the bottom of Queen’s Gate the coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road; Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor.

“No, Frank,” he cried, “no, no,” and he fumbled at the handle of the door, “I must get out; I will not go.  I will not go.”

“Sit still,” I said in despair, “I’ll tell the coachman,” and I put my head out of the window and cried: 

“Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert.”

I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street.  I was consumed with rage and contemptuous impatience.  I had done the best I knew and had failed.  Why?  I had no idea.  I have never known why he refused to come.  I don’t think he knew himself.  Such resignation I had never dreamt of.  It was utterly new to me.  I used to think of resignation in a vague way as of something rather beautiful; ever since, I have thought of it with impatience:  resignation is the courage of the irresolute.  Oscar’s obstinacy was the obverse of his weakness.  It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures.  The attraction of waiting and doing nothing is intense for those who live in thought and detest action.  As we turned into Oakley Street, Oscar said to me: 

“You are not angry with me, Frank?” and he put out his hand.

“No, no,” I said, “why should I be angry?  You are the master of your fate.  I can only offer advice.”

“Do come and see me soon,” he pleaded.

“My bolt is shot,” I replied; “but I’ll come in two or three days’ time, as soon as I have anything of importance to say....  Don’t forget, Oscar, the yacht is there and will be there waiting until the 20th; the yacht will always be ready and the brougham.”

“Good night, Frank,” he said, “good night, and thank you.”