“And that’s not the worst of it, Frank:  I came out of prison determined not to see him any more.  I promised my poor wife I would not see him again.  I had forgiven him; but I did not want to see him.  I had suffered too much by him and through him, far too much.  And then he wrote and wrote of his love, crying it to me every hour, begging me to come, telling me he only wanted me, in order to be happy, me in the whole world.  How could I help believing him, how could I keep away from him?  At last I yielded and went to him, and as soon as the difficulties began he turned on me in Naples like a wild beast, blaming me and insulting me.

“I had to fly to Paris, having lost everything through him—­wife and income and self-respect, everything; but I always thought that he was at least generous as a man of his name should be:  I had no idea he could be stingy and mean; but now he is comparatively rich, he prefers to squander his money on jockeys and trainers and horses, of which he knows nothing, instead of lifting me out of my misery.  Surely it is not too much to ask him to give me a tenth when I gave him all?  Won’t you ask him?”

“I think he ought to have done what you want, without asking,” I admitted, “but I am certain my speaking would not do any good.  He shows me hatred already whenever I do not agree with him.  Hate is nearer to him always than sympathy:  he is his father’s son, Oscar, and I can do nothing.  I cannot even speak to him about it.”

“Oh, Frank, you ought to,” said Oscar.

“But suppose he retorted and said you led him astray, what could I answer?”

“Led him astray!” cried Oscar, starting up, “you cannot believe that.  You know better than that.  It is not true.  It is he who always led, always dominated me; he is as imperious as a Caesar.  It was he who began our intimacy:  he who came to me in London when I did not want to see him, or rather, Frank, I wanted to but I was afraid; at the very beginning I was afraid of what it would all lead to, and I avoided him; the desperate aristocratic pride in him, the dreadful bold, imperious temper in him terrified me.  But he came to London and sent for me to come to him, said he would come to my house if I didn’t.  I went, thinking I could reason with him; but it was impossible.  When I told him we must be very careful, for I was afraid of what might happen, he made fun of my fears, and encouraged me.  He knew that they’d never dare to punish him; he’s allied to half the peerage and he did not care what became of me....

“He led me first to the street, introduced me to the male prostitution in London.  From the beginning to the end he has driven me like the Oestrum of which the Greeks wrote, which drove the ill-fated to disaster.

“And now he says he owes me nothing; I have no claim, I who gave to him without counting; he says he needs all his money for himself:  he wants to win races and to write poetry, Frank, the pretty verses which he thinks poetry.