Paris is terrible in its heat. I walk in streets of brass, and there is no one here. Even the criminal classes have gone to the seaside, and the gendarmes yawn and regret their enforced idleness. Giving wrong directions to the English tourists is the only thing that consoles them.
You were most kind and generous last month in letting me have a cheque—it gives me just the margin to live on and to live by. May I have it again this month? or has gold flown away from you?
Ever yours,
Oscar.
THE DEDICATION OF "AN IDEAL HUSBAND"
I received the following letter from Oscar early in 1899 I imagine. It was written in the spring after the winter we spent in La Napoule.
From M. Sebastian Melmoth,
Gland,
Canton Vaud,
Switzerland.
My dear Frank: