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.