“Isn’t she a dear old lady?” he cried, “charming, brilliant, human creature!  She might have stepped out of a page of Thackeray, only Thackeray never wrote a page quite dainty and charming enough.  He came near it in his ‘Esmond.’  Oh, I remember you don’t like the book, but it is beautifully written, Frank, in beautiful simple rhythmic English.  It sings itself to the ear.  Lady Dorothy” (how he loved the title!) “was always kind to me, but London is horrible.  I could not live in London again.  I must go away out of England.  Do you remember talking to me, Frank, of France?” and he put both his hands on my shoulders, while tears ran down his face, and sighs broke from him.  “Beautiful France, the one country in the world where they care for humane ideals and the humane life.  Ah! if only I had gone with you to France,” and the tears poured down his cheeks and our hands met convulsively.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” I began again.  “Books you shall have; for God’s sake keep your heart up, and I will come back and see you, and don’t forget you have good friends outside; lots of us!”

“Thank you, Frank; but take care, won’t you, and remember your promise not to tell.”

I nodded in assent and went to the door.  The warder came in.

“The interview is over,” I said; “will you take me downstairs?”

“If you will not mind sitting here, sir,” he said, “for a minute.  I must take him back first.”

“I have been telling my friend,” said Oscar to the warder, “how good you have been to me,” and he turned and went, leaving with me the memory of his eyes and unforgettable smile; but I noticed as he disappeared that he was thin, and looked hunched up and bowed, in the ugly ill-fitting prison livery.  I took out a bank note and put it under the blotting paper that had been placed on the table for me.  In two or three minutes the warder came back, and as I left the room I thanked him for being kind to my friend, and told him how kindly Oscar had spoken of him.

“He has no business here, sir,” the warder said.  “He’s no more like one of our reg’lars than a canary is like one of them cocky little spadgers.  Prison ain’t meant for such as him, and he ain’t meant for prison.  He’s that soft, sir, you see, and affeckshunate.  He’s more like a woman, he is; you hurt ’em without meaning to.  I don’t care what they say, I likes him; and he do talk beautiful, sir, don’t he?”

“Indeed he does,” I said, “the best talker in the world.  I want you to look in the pad on the table.  I have left a note there for you.”

“Not for me, sir, I could not take it; no, sir, please not,” he cried in a hurried, fear-struck voice.  “You’ve forgotten something, sir, come back and get it, sir, do, please.  I daren’t.”

In spite of my remonstrance he took me back and I had to put the note in my pocket.

“I could not, you know, sir, I was not kind to him for that.”  His manner changed; he seemed hurt.