I had written to him on the previous evening that I was coming to take Oscar out to lunch.
Willie Wilde met me at the door; he was much excited apparently by the notoriety attaching to Oscar; he was volubly eager to tell me that, though we had not been friends, yet my support of Oscar was most friendly and he would therefore bury the hatchet.

He had never interested me, and I was unconscious of any hatchet and careless whether he buried it or blessed it.

I repeated drily that I had come to take Oscar to lunch.
"I know you have," he said, "and it's most kind of you; but he can't go." "Why not ?" I asked as I went in.
Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering.

Willie's theatrical insincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to get away.

Suddenly I saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar's memory.