"Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my head out of the window and cried:
"Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert."
I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I was consumed with rage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best I knew and had failed. Why? I had no idea. I have never known why he refused to come. I don't think he knew himself. Such resignation I had never dreamt of. It was utterly new to me. I used to think of resignation in a vague way as of something rather beautiful; ever since, I have thought of it with impatience: resignation is the courage of the irresolute. Oscar's obstinacy was the obverse of his weakness. It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures. The attraction of waiting and doing nothing is intense for those who live in thought and detest action. As we turned into Oakley Street, Oscar said to me:
"You are not angry with me, Frank?" and he put out his hand.
"No, no," I said, "why should I be angry? You are the master of your fate. I can only offer advice."
"Do come and see me soon," he pleaded.
"My bolt is shot," I replied; "but I'll come in two or three days' time, as soon as I have anything of importance to say.... Don't forget, Oscar, the yacht is there and will be there waiting until the 20th; the yacht will always be ready and the brougham."
"Good night, Frank," he said, "good night, and thank you."
He got out and went into the house, the gloomy sordid house where the brother lived who would sell his blood for a price!