R.R. Came? Here, do you mean?
O.W. Looking as young and charming as ever. But, as soon as he looked at me, I saw he had entirely forgotten me.
(There is nothing possible to be said. L.H. makes haste to pay for the aperitifs; and with the anxiety of an Englishman, unpractised in foreign ways, to do what is right for the reputation of his country in a strange land, he puts down an additional pour-boire, five bronze pieces in all, to correspond to the number who have been served. With grave apologetic politeness his guest lays an arresting hand upon his arm; and (while the garçon whisks away the douceur with cheerful alacrity) instructs him for future occasions.)
O.W. My dear L.H., you should not do that! The Frenchman, for these casual services, gives what you call a penny. The Englishman gives what some of them call “tuppence”; not because he does not know that the Frenchman’s penny is sufficient, but because he is an Englishman. If you give more than that the waiter only thinks that you do not know where you are.
L.H. (who has a weakness for putting himself in the right, even in quite small matters.) Ah, yes, Mr. Wilde, that may be, but here, at St. Helena, one tips the waiters differently.
(It is touching to see what pleasure that foolish but fortunate little “mot” has given to the man for whom it was designed. They have all now risen; and their next move will be to the tabled interior, where pleasant courses are awaiting them. But the forward movement is delayed; and it is with a curious air of finality, as though already taking his leave, that O.W. speaks.)
O.W. My friends, we have had a wonderful hour together. I have been very happy. Excuse me: I am going across to get an English paper. The woman at the kiosk, who sells them, is a charming character: she compliments my accent by pretending to think that I am French. Go in: I beg you not to wait for me.
(They see him cross the street, with his accustomed air of leisurely deliberation—a little amused to notice how the vehement traffic has to pause and make way for him. At the kiosk he and the woman exchange words and smiles. He lifts his hat and turns away.)
L.H. (startled). He’s not coming back?
R.R. Harvey Jerrold wants kicking. Poor Oscar!