ing, when I reached this house — on which Oscar objected to paying taxes because, as he told the astonished assessors, he was so seldom at home — when I reached it, it seemed to me that I must be the only guest. Then, presently, in the dreary drawing-room, Oscar appeared. "This is delightful of you," he told me. "I have been late for dinner a half hour, again a whole hour; you are late an entire week. That is what I call originality."
I put a bold face on it. "Come to my shop," I said, "and have dinner with me. Though," I added, "I don't know what I can give you."
"Oh, anything," Wilde replied. "Anything, no matter what. I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best."
He was not boasting. One evening he dined on his "Sphinx." Subsequently I supped with him on "Salome."
That was in the Regent street restaurant where, apropos of nothing, or rather with what to me at the time was curious
