and went to him, and as soon as the difficulties began
he turned on me in Naples like a wild beast, blaming me and insulting
me.

"I had to fly to Paris, having lost everything through him--wife and
income and self-respect, everything; but I always thought that he was at
least generous as a man of his name should be: I had no idea he could be
stingy and mean; but now he is comparatively rich, he prefers to
squander his money on jockeys and trainers and horses, of which he knows
nothing, instead of lifting me out of my misery. Surely it is not too
much to ask him to give me a tenth when I gave him all? Won't you ask
him?"

"I think he ought to have done what you want, without asking," I
admitted, "but I am certain my speaking would not do any good. He shows
me hatred already whenever I do not agree with him. Hate is nearer to
him always than sympathy: he is his father's son, Oscar, and I can do
nothing. I cannot even speak to him about it."

"Oh, Frank, you ought to," said Oscar.

"But suppose he retorted and said you led him astray, what could I
answer?"

"Led him astray!" cried Oscar, starting up, "you cannot believe that.
You know better than that. It is not true. It is he who always led,
always dominated me; he is as imperious as a Caesar. It was he who began
our intimacy: he who came to me in London when I did not want to see
him, or rather, Frank, I wanted to but I was afraid; at the very
beginning I was afraid of what it would all lead to, and I avoided him;
the desperate aristocratic pride in him, the dreadful bold, imperious
temper in him terrified me. But he came to London and sent for me to
come to him, said he would come to my house if I didn't. I went,
thinking I could reason with him; but it was impossible. When I told him
we must be very careful, for I was afraid of what might happen, he made
fun of my fears, and encouraged me. He knew that they'd never dare to
punish him; he's allied to half the peerage and he did not care what
became of me....

"He led me first to the street, introduced me to the male prostitution
in London. From the beginning to the end he has driven me like the
Oestrum of which the Greeks wrote, which drove the ill-fated to
disaster.

"And now he says he owes me nothing; I have no _claim_, I who gave to
him without counting; he says he needs all his money for himself: he
wants to win races and to write poetry, Frank, the pretty verses which
he thinks poetry.

"He has ruined