letter merely shows that Bobbie has something to conceal”; but he would add, “how kind he is, how good,” as if Ross’s devotion surprised him, as in fact it did.  Ross has since told me that Oscar never cared much for him.  Indeed Oscar cared so little for anyone that an unselfish affection astonished him beyond measure:  he could find in himself no explanation of it.  His vanity was always more active than his gratitude, as indeed it is with most of us.  Now and then when Ross played mentor or took him to task, he became prickly at once and would retort:  “Really, Bobbie, you ride the high horse so well, and so willingly, it seems a pity that you never tried Pegasus”—­not a sneer exactly, but a rap on the knuckles to call his monitor to order.  Like most men of charming manners, Oscar was selfish and self-centred, too convinced of his own importance to spend much thought on others; yet generous to the needy and kind to all.

After my return to London he kept on begging for money by almost every post.  As soon as my play was advertised I found myself dunned and persecuted by a horde of people who declared that Oscar had sold them the scenario he afterwards sold to me.[38] Several of them threatened to get injunctions to prevent me staging my play, “Mr. and Mrs. Daventry,” if I did not first settle with them.  Naturally, I wrote rather sharply to Oscar for having led me into this hornets’ nest.

It was in the midst of all this unpleasantness that I heard from Turner, in October, I believe, that Oscar was seriously ill, and that if I owed him money, as he asserted, it would be a kindness to send it, as he was in great need.  The letter found me in bed.  I could not say now whether I answered it or not:  it made me impatient; his friends must have known that I owed Oscar nothing; but later I received a telegram from Ross saying that Oscar was not expected to live.  I was ill and unable to move, or I should have gone at once to Paris.  As it was I sent for my friend, Bell, gave him some money and a cheque, and begged him to go across and let me know if Oscar were really in danger, which I could hardly believe.  As luck would have it, the next afternoon, when I hoped Bell had started, his wife came to tell me that he had had a severe asthmatic attack, but would cross as soon as he dared.

I was too hard up myself to wire money that might not be needed, and Oscar had cried “wolf” about his health too often to be a credible witness.  Yet I was dissatisfied with myself and anxious for Bell to start.

Day after day passed in troubled doubts and fears; but it was not long when a period was put to all my anxiety.  A telegram came telling me he was dead.  I could hardly believe my eyes:  it seemed incredible—­the fount of joy and gaiety; the delightful source of intellectual vivacity and interest stilled forever.  The world went greyer to me because of Oscar Wilde’s death.

Months afterwards Robert Ross gave me the particulars of his last illness.