There was feminine cunning in its wound to vanity.
A little later Oscar told me that Queensberry accompanied by a friend had called on him.
"What happened ?" I asked.
"I said to him, 'I suppose, Lord Queensberry, you have come to apologise for the libellous letter you wrote about me ?' "'No,' he replied, 'the letter was privileged; it was written to my son.' "'How dared you say such a thing about your son and me ?' "'You were both kicked out of The Savoy Hotel for disgusting conduct,' he replied.
"'That's untrue,' I said, 'absolutely untrue.' "'You were blackmailed too for a disgusting letter you wrote my son,' he went on.
"'I don't know who has been telling you all these silly stories,' I replied, 'but they are untrue and quite ridiculous.' "He ended up by saying that if he caught me and his son together again he would thrash me.
"'I don't know what the Queensberry rules are,' I retorted, 'but my rule is to shoot at sight in case of personal violence,' and with that I told him to leave my house." "Of course he defied you ?" I questioned.
"He was rude, Frank, and preposterous to the end." As Oscar was telling me the story, it seemed to me as if another person were speaking through his mouth.

The idea of Oscar "standing up" to Queensberry or "shooting at sight" was too absurd.

Who was inspiring him?
Alfred Douglas?
"What has happened since ?" I enquired.
"Nothing," he replied, "perhaps he will be quiet now.

Bosie has written him a terrible letter; he must see now that, if he goes on, he will only injure his own flesh and blood." "That won't stop him," I replied, "if I read him aright.

But if I could see what Alfred Douglas wrote, I should be better able to judge of the effect it will have on Queensberry." A little later I saw the letter: it shows better than words of mine the tempers of the chief actors in this squalid story: "As you return my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard.