I was going in just as Queensberry was coming out with two or three of his special cronies.
"I'll do it," I heard him cry, "I'll teach the fellow to leave my son alone.

I'll not have their names coupled together." I caught a glimpse of the thrust-out combative face and the hot grey eyes.
"What's it all about ?" I asked.
"Only Queensberry," said someone, "swearing he'll stop Oscar Wilde going about with that son of his, Alfred Douglas." Suddenly my fears took form: as in a flash I saw Oscar, heedless and smiling, walking along with his head in the air, and that violent combative insane creature pouncing on him.

I sat down at once and wrote begging Oscar to lunch with me the next day alone, as I had something important to say to him.

He turned up in Park Lane, manifestly anxious, a little frightened, I think.
"What is it, Frank ?" I told him very seriously what I had heard and gave besides my impression of Queensberry's character, and his insane pugnacity.
"What can I do, Frank ?" said Oscar, showing distress and apprehension.
"It's all Bosie." "Who is Bosie ?" I asked.
"That is Lord Alfred Douglas' pet name.

It's all Bosie's fault.