_He_ does not mind whether I write or not." "I assure you," I cried, "it is not my pleasure I am thinking about.
What can it matter to me whether you write or not?
It is your own good I am thinking of." "Oh, bother good! One's friends like one as one is; the outside public hate one or scoff at one as they please." "Well, I hope I shall always be your friend," I replied, "but you will yet be forced to see, Oscar, that everyone grows tired of holding up an empty sack." "Frank, you insult me." "I don't mean to; I'm sorry; I shall never be so brutally frank again; but you had to hear the truth for once." "Then, Frank, you only cared for me in so far as I agreed with you ?" "Oh, that's not fair," I replied.

"I have tried with all my strength to prevent you committing soul-suicide, but if you are resolved on it, I can't prevent you.

I must draw away.

I can do no good." "Then you won't help me for the rest of the winter ?" "Of course I will," I replied, "I shall do all I promised and more; but there's a limit now, and till now the only limit was my power, not my will." It was at Napoule a few days later that an incident occurred which gave me to a certain extent a new sidelight on Oscar's nature by showing just what he thought of me.

I make no scruple of setting forth his opinion here in its entirety, though the confession took place after a futile evening when he had talked to M---- of great houses in England and the great people he had met there.