(_There is nothing possible to be said. L.H. makes haste to pay for the aperitifs; and with the anxiety of an Englishman, unpractised in foreign ways, to do what is right for the reputation of his country in a strange land, he puts down an additional pour-boire, five bronze pieces in all, to correspond to the number who have been served. With grave apologetic politeness his guest lays an arresting hand upon his arm; and (while the garçon whisks away the douceur with cheerful alacrity) instructs him for future occasions_.) O.W. My dear L.H., you should not do that! The Frenchman, for these casual services, gives what you call a penny. The Englishman gives what some of them call “tuppence”; not because he does not know that the Frenchman’s penny is sufficient, but because he is an Englishman. If you give more than that the waiter only thinks that you do not know where you are. L.H. (_who has a weakness for putting himself in the right, even in quite small matters_.) Ah, yes, Mr. Wilde, that may be, but here, at St. Helena, one tips the waiters differently. (_It is touching to see what pleasure that foolish but fortunate little “mot” has given to the man for whom it was designed. They have all now risen; and their next move will be to the tabled interior, where pleasant courses are awaiting them. But the forward movement is delayed; and it is with a curious air of finality, as though already taking his leave, that O.W. speaks._) O.W. My friends, we have had a wonderful hour together. I have been very happy. Excuse me: I am going across to get an English paper. The woman at the kiosk, who sells them, is a charming character: she compliments my accent by pretending to think that I am French. Go in: I beg you not to wait for me. (_They see him cross the street, with his accustomed air of leisurely deliberation—a little amused to notice how the vehement traffic has to pause and make way for him. At the kiosk he and the woman exchange words and smiles. He lifts his hat and turns away._) L.H. (_startled_). He’s not coming back? R.R. Harvey Jerrold wants kicking. Poor Oscar! H.A. Shall I go after him? R.R. No, no! Let him go. We understand. (_And they all stand and watch, as he passes slowly down the street, till he disappears in the crowd._) Footnote Twenty years after a man’s death is usually a sufficient time to compose, in their proper unimportance, the prejudices and enmities which have surrounded his career. But in this particular case, I suppose, it has hardly done so; and the man who was so greatly over-rated by his own following, during those ten years of literary and social triumph which made him the vogue, was, in the ten years after, as carefully under-rated, not because the quality of his work had proved itself poor and ephemeral, but because of something that he had done.