I could think of nothing but Oscar; this hard, small, bitter nature made Oscar's suffering plain to me.
"As I can do no good," I said, "do you mind letting me sleep?
I'm simply tired to death." "I'm sorry," he said, looking for his hat; "will you come out in the morning and see the 'gees' ?" "I don't think so," I replied, "I'm incapable of a resolution now, I'm so tired I would rather sleep.

I think I'll go up to Paris in the morning.

I have something rather urgent to do." He said "Good night" and went away.
I lay awake, my eyes prickling with sorrow and sympathy for poor Oscar, insulted in his misery and destitution, outraged and trodden on by the man he had loved, by the man who had thrust him into the Pit....[36] I made up my mind to go to Oscar at once and try to comfort him a little.

After all, I thought, another fifty pounds or so wouldn't make a great deal of difference to me, and I dwelt on the many delightful hours I had passed with him, hours of gay talk and superb intellectual enjoyment.
I went up by the morning train to Paris, and drove across the river to Oscar's hotel.
He had two rooms, a small sitting-room and a still smaller bedroom adjoining.

He was lying half-dressed on the bed as I entered.