I had not to talk myself, but to listen to a man telling me stories better than I could have told them.

We did not refer to Art, about which, excluding literature from the definition, he knew only what could be picked up by reading about it.

He was in a tweed suit and low hat like myself, and had been detected and had detected me in the act of clandestinely spending a happy day at Rosherville Gardens instead of pontificating in his frock coat and so forth.

And he had an audience on whom not one of his subtlest effects was lost.

And so for once our meeting was a success; and I understood why Morris, when he was dying slowly, enjoyed a visit from Wilde more than from anybody else, as I understand why you say in your book that you would rather have Wilde back than any friend you have ever talked to, even though he was incapable of friendship, though not of the most touching kindness[1] on occasion.
[Footnote 1: Excellent analysis.