vided for, my dear fellow, amply provided for; we
have our public schools and universities to see to that. What we want
are schools for the higher education of men, and schools for the lower
education of women."

Genial persiflage of this sort was his particular _forte_ whether my
imitation of it is good or bad.

His kindliness was ingrained. I never heard him say a gross or even a
vulgar word, hardly even a sharp or unkind thing. Whether in company or
with one person, his mind was all dedicated to genial, kindly,
flattering thoughts. He hated rudeness or discussion or insistence as he
hated ugliness or deformity.

One evening of this summer a trivial incident showed me that he was
sinking deeper in the mud-honey of life.

A new play was about to be given at the Francais and because he
expressed a wish to see it I bought a couple of tickets. We went in and
he made me change places with him in order to be able to talk to me; he
was growing nearly deaf in the bad ear. After the first act we went
outside to smoke a cigarette.

"It's stupid," Oscar began, "fancy us two going in there to listen to
what that foolish Frenchman says about love; he knows nothing about it;
either of us could write much better on the theme. Let's walk up and
down here under the columns and talk."

The people began to go into the theatre again and, as they were
disappearing, I said:

"It seems rather a pity to waste our tickets; so many wish to see the
play."

"We shall find someone to give them to," he said indifferently, stopping
by one of the pillars.

At that very moment as if under his hand appeared a boy of about fifteen
or sixteen, one of the gutter-snipe of Paris. To my amazement, he said:

"Bon soir, Monsieur Wilde."

Oscar turned to him smiling.

"Vous etes Jules, n'est-ce pas?" (you are Jules, aren't you?) he
questioned.

"Oui, M. Wilde."

"Here is the very boy you want," Oscar cried; "let's give him the
tickets, and he'll sell them, and make something out of them," and Oscar
turned and began to explain to the boy how I had given two hundred
francs for the tickets, and how, even now, they should be worth a louis
or two.

"Des jaunets" (yellow boys), cried the youth, his sharp face lighting
up, and in a flash he had vanished with the tickets.

"You see he knows me, Frank," said Oscar, with the childish pleasure of
gratified vanity.

"Yes," I replied drily, "not an acquaintance to be proud of, I should
think."

"