and had spent a lot trying to find me and tell me
about the letter. I told him I did not mind relieving his distress,
and gave him half a sovereign, assuring him at the same time that the
letter would shortly be published as a sonnet in a delightful
magazine. I went to the door with him, and he walked away. I closed
the door; but didn't shut it at once, for suddenly I heard a
policeman's step coming softly towards my house--pad, pad! A dreadful
moment, then he passed by. I went into the room again all shaken,
wondering whether I had done right, whether Allen would hawk the
letter about--a thousand vague apprehensions.

"Suddenly a knock at the street door. My heart was in my mouth, still
I went and opened it: a man named Cliburn was there.

"'I have come to you with a letter of Allen's.'

"'I cannot be bothered any more,' I cried, 'about that letter; I don't
care twopence about it. Let him do what he likes with it.'

"To my astonishment Cliburn said:

"'Allen has asked me to give it back to you,' and he produced it.

"'Why does he give it back to me?' I asked carelessly.

"'He says you were kind to him and that it is no use trying to "rent"
you; you only laugh at us.'

"I looked at the letter; it was very dirty, and I said:

"'I think it is unpardonable that better care should not have been
taken of a manuscript of mine.'

"He said he was sorry; but it had been in many hands. I took the
letter up casually:

"'Well, I will accept the letter back. You can thank Mr. Allen for
me.'

"I gave Cliburn half a sovereign for his trouble, and said to him:

"'I am afraid you are leading a desperately wicked life.'

"'There's good and bad in every one of us,' he replied. I said
something about his being a philosopher, and he went away. That's the
whole story, Frank."

"But the letter?" I questioned.

"The letter is nothing," Oscar replied; "a prose poem. I will give you
a copy of it."

Here is the letter:

"MY OWN BOY,--Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it
is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be
made no less for the madness of music and song than for the
madness of kissing. Your slim-gilt soul walks between
passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as
you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do
you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the
grey twilight of Gothic things. Come here whenever you like.