Yet there are true souls in England, noble, generous hearts.  I remember a lunch at Mrs. Jeune’s, where one declared that Wilde was at length enjoying his deserts; another regretted that his punishment was so slight, a third with precise knowledge intimated delicately and with quiet complacence that two years’ imprisonment with hard labour usually resulted in idiocy or death:  fifty per cent., it appeared, failed to win through.  It was more to be dreaded on all accounts than five years’ penal servitude.  “You see it begins with starvation and solitary confinement, and that breaks up the strongest.  I think it will be enough for our vainglorious talker.”  Miss Madeleine Stanley (now Lady Middleton) was sitting beside me, her fine, sensitive face clouded:  I could not contain myself, I was being whipped on a sore.

“This must have been the way they talked in Jerusalem,” I remarked, “after the world-tragedy.”

“You were an intimate friend of his, were you not?” insinuated the delicate one gently.

“A friend and admirer,” I replied, “and always shall be.”

A glacial silence spread round the table, while the delicate one smiled with deprecating contempt, and offered some grapes to his neighbour; but help came.  Lady Dorothy Nevill was a little further down the table:  she had not heard all that was said, but had caught the tone of the conversation and divined the rest.

“Are you talking of Oscar Wilde?” she exclaimed.  “I’m glad to hear you say you are a friend.  I am, too, and shall always be proud of having known him, a most brilliant, charming man.”

“I think of giving a dinner to him when he comes out, Lady Dorothy,” I said.

“I hope you’ll ask me,” she answered bravely.  “I should be glad to come.  I always admired and liked him; I feel dreadfully sorry for him.”

The delicate one adroitly changed the conversation and coffee came in, but Miss Stanley said to me: 

“I wish I had known him, there must have been great good in him to win such friendship.”

“Great charm in any case,” I replied, “and that’s rarer among men than even goodness.”

The first news that came to us from prison was not altogether bad.  He had broken down and was in the infirmary, but was getting better.  The brave Stewart Headlam, who had gone bail for him, had visited him, the Stewart Headlam who was an English clergyman, and yet, wonder of wonders, a Christian.  A little later one heard that Sherard had seen him, and brought about a reconciliation with his wife.  Mrs. Wilde had been very good and had gone to the prison and had no doubt comforted him.  Much to be hoped from all this....

For months and months the situation in South Africa took all my heart and mind.

In the first days of January, 1896, came the Jameson Raid, and I sailed for South Africa.  I had work to do for The Saturday Review, absorbing work by day and night.  In the summer I was back in England, but the task of defending the Boer farmers grew more and more arduous, and I only heard that Oscar was going on as well as could be expected.