"Tu proverai si come sa di sale Lo pane altrui; e com' e duro calle Lo scendere e 'l salir per l'altrui scale." The impression made by Oscar that evening was not only of self-indulgence but of over-confidence. I could not imagine what had given him this insolent self- complacence. I wanted to get by myself and think. Prosperity was certainly doing him no good. All the while the opposition to him, I felt, was growing in force. How could I verify this impression, I asked myself, so as to warn him effectually? I decided to give a lunch to him, and on purpose I put on the invitations: "To meet Mr. Oscar Wilde and hear a new story." Out of a dozen invitations sent out to men, seven or eight were refused, three or four telling me in all kindness that they would rather not meet Oscar Wilde. This confirmed my worst fears: when Englishmen speak out in this way the dislike must be near revolt. I gave the lunch and saw plainly enough that my forebodings were justified. Oscar was more self-confident than ever, but his talk did not suffer; indeed, it seemed to improve. At this lunch he told the charming fable of "Narcissus," which is certainly one of his most characteristic short stories. "When Narcissus died the Flowers of the Field were plunged in grief, and asked the River for drops of water that they might mourn for him. "'Oh,' replied the River, 'if only my drops of water were tears, I should not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself--I loved him.' "'How could you help loving Narcissus?' said the flowers, 'so beautiful was he.' "'Was he beautiful?' asked the River. "'Who should know that better than you?' said the flowers, 'for every day, lying on your bank, he would mirror his beauty in your waters.'" Oscar paused here, and then went on: "'If I loved him,' replied the River, 'it is because, when he hung over me, I saw the reflection of my own loveliness in his eyes.'" After lunch I took him aside and tried to warn him, told him that unpleasant stories were being put about against him; but he paid no heed to me. "All envy, Frank, and malice. What do I care? I go to Clumber this summer; besides I am doing another play which I rather like. I always knew that play- writing was my province. As a youth I tried to write plays in verse; that was my mistake. Now I know better; I'm sure of myself and of success." Somehow or other in spite of his apparent assurance I felt he was in danger and I doubted his quality as a fighter. But after all it was not my business: wilful man must have his way. It seems to me now that my mistrust dated from the second paper war with Whistler, wherein to the astonishment of everyone Oscar did not come off victorious. As soon as he met with opposition his power of repartee seemed to desert him and Whistler, using mere rudeness and man-of-the-world sharpness, held the field. Oscar was evidently not a born fighter.