I tried to persuade him by his vanity.
"You must remember," I said, "that you are a sort of standard bearer for future generations. If you lose you will make it harder for all writers in England; though God knows it is hard enough already; you will put back the hands of the clock for fifty years."
I seemed almost to have persuaded him. He questioned me:
"What is the alternative, Frank, the wisest thing to do in your opinion?
Tell me that."
"You ought to go abroad," I replied, "go abroad with your wife, and let Queensberry and his son fight out their own miserable quarrels; they are well-matched."
"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how can I do that?"
"Sleep on it," I replied; "I am going to, and we can talk it all over in a day or two."
"But I must know," he said wistfully, "tomorrow morning, Frank."
"Bernard Shaw is lunching with me tomorrow," I replied, "at the Cafe Royal."
He made an impatient movement of his head.