But one had hardly spoken a half a dozen words to him, when he used to beg to be called Oscar Wilde.

I remember how he pulled up someone who had just been introduced to him, who persisted in addressing him as Mr.Melmoth.
"Call me Oscar Wilde," he pleaded, "Mr.Melmoth is unknown, you see." "I thought you preferred it," said the stranger excusing himself.
"Oh, dear, no," interrupted Oscar smiling, "I only use the name Melmoth to spare the blushes of the postman, to preserve his modesty," and he laughed in the old delightful way.
It was always significant to me the eager delight with which he shuffled off the new name and took up the old one which he had made famous.
An anecdote from his life in the Chalet at this time showed that the old witty pagan in Oscar was not yet extinct.
An English lady who had written a great many novels and happened to be staying in Dieppe heard of him, and out of kindness or curiosity, or perhaps a mixture of both motives, wrote and invited him to luncheon.

He accepted the invitation.

The good lady did not know how to talk to Mr.
Sebastian Melmoth, and time went heavily.

At length she began to expatiate on the cheapness of things in France; did Mr.Melmoth know how wonderfully cheap and good the living was?
"Only fancy," she went on, "you would not believe what that claret you are drinking costs." "Really ?" questioned Oscar, with a polite smile.
"Of course I get it wholesale," she explained, "but it only costs me sixpence a quart." "Oh, my dear lady, I'm afraid you have been cheated," he exclaimed, "ladies should never buy wine.