“Tell me what you mean, Frank, for God’s sake,” he cried.

“I can tell you in a word,” I replied; “you will lose your case.  I have promised not to say more.”

I tried to persuade him by his vanity.

“You must remember,” I said, “that you are a sort of standard bearer for future generations.  If you lose you will make it harder for all writers in England; though God knows it is hard enough already; you will put back the hands of the clock for fifty years.”

I seemed almost to have persuaded him.  He questioned me: 

“What is the alternative, Frank, the wisest thing to do in your opinion?  Tell me that.”

“You ought to go abroad,” I replied, “go abroad with your wife, and let Queensberry and his son fight out their own miserable quarrels; they are well-matched.”

“Oh, Frank,” he cried, “how can I do that?”

“Sleep on it,” I replied; “I am going to, and we can talk it all over in a day or two.”

“But I must know,” he said wistfully, “to-morrow morning, Frank.”

“Bernard Shaw is lunching with me to-morrow,” I replied, “at the Cafe Royal.”

He made an impatient movement of his head.

“He usually goes early,” I went on, “and if you like to come after three o’clock we can have a talk and consider it all.”

“May I bring Bosie?” he enquired.

“I would rather you did not,” I replied, “but it is for you to do just as you like.  I don’t mind saying what I have to say, before anyone,” and on that we parted.

Somehow or other next day at lunch both Shaw and I got interested in our talk, and we were both at the table when Oscar came in.  I introduced them, but they had met before.  Shaw stood up and proposed to go at once, but Oscar with his usual courtesy assured him that he would be glad if he stayed.

“Then, Oscar,” I said, “perhaps you won’t mind Shaw hearing what I advise?”

“No, Frank, I don’t mind,” he sighed with a pitiful air of depression.

I am not certain and my notes do not tell me whether Bosie Douglas came in with Oscar or a little later, but he heard the greater part of our talk.  I put the matter simply.

“First of all,” I said, “we start with the certainty that you are going to lose the case against Queensberry.  You must give it up, drop it at once; but you cannot drop it and stay in England.  Queensberry would probably attack you again and again.  I know him well; he is half a savage and regards pity as a weakness; he has absolutely no consideration for others.

“You should go abroad, and, as ace of trumps, you should take your wife with you.  Now for the excuse:  I would sit down and write such a letter as you alone can write to The Times.  You should set forth how you have been insulted by the Marquis of Queensberry, and how you went naturally to the Courts for a remedy, but you found out very soon that this was a mistake.  No jury would give a verdict against a father, however mistaken he might be.  The only thing for you to do therefore is to go abroad, and leave the whole ring, with its gloves and ropes, its sponges and pails, to Lord Queensberry.  You are a maker of beautiful things, you should say, and not a fighter.  Whereas the Marquis of Queensberry takes joy only in fighting.  You refuse to fight with a father under these circumstances.”