"No, no," he repeated, "you don't understand; I can't go, I cannot go."
"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come and spend a week yachting with me?"
"I cannot."
I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolation and despair in his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears were pouring down his face; he was the picture of misery, yet I could not move him.
"Come into the carriage," I said, hoping that the swift wind in his face would freshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy of living and sharpen the desire of freedom.
"Yes, Frank," he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street."
"I would as soon take you to prison," I replied; "but as you wish."
The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. The mist seemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gate the coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road; Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor.
"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the door, "I must get out; I will not go. I will not go."