ng we had agreed to meet a few nights afterwards at Mrs.
Leverson's, where he had been invited to dinner, and where I also had
been invited. By that time, I thought to myself, all my preparations
would be perfected.

Looking back now I see clearly that my affection for Oscar Wilde dates
from his confession to me that afternoon. I had been a friend of his
for years; but what had bound us together had been purely
intellectual, a community of literary tastes and ambitions. Now his
trust in me and frankness had thrown down the barrier between us; and
made me conscious of the extraordinary femininity and gentle weakness
of his nature, and, instead of condemning him as I have always
condemned that form of sexual indulgence, I felt only pity for him
and a desire to protect and help him. From that day on our friendship
became intimate: I began to divine him; I knew now that his words
would always be more generous and noble than his actions; knew too
that I must take his charm of manner and vivacity of intercourse for
real virtues, and indeed they were as real as the beauty of flowers;
and I was aware as by some sixth sense that, where his vanity was
concerned, I might expect any injustice from him. I was sure
beforehand, however, that I should always forgive him, or rather that
I should always accept whatever he did and love him for the charm and
sweetness and intellect in him and hold myself more than recompensed
for anything I might be able to do, by his delightful companionship.

CHAPTER XVI

In spite of the wit of the hostess and her exquisite cordiality, our
dinner at Mrs. Leverson's was hardly a success. Oscar was not himself;
contrary to his custom he sat silent and downcast. From time to time
he sighed heavily, and his leaden dejection gradually infected all of
us. I was not sorry, for I wanted to get him away early; by ten
o'clock we had left the house and were in the Cromwell Road. He
preferred to walk: without his noticing it I turned up Queen's Gate
towards the park. After walking for ten minutes I said to him:

"I want to speak to you seriously. Do you happen to know where Erith
is?"

"No, Frank."

"It is a little landing place on the Thames," I went on, "not many
miles away: it can be reached by a fast pair of horses and a brougham
in a very short time. There at Erith is a steam yacht ready to start
at a moment's notice; she has steam up now, one hundred pounds
pressure to the square inch in her bo