On Monday, when he was finally free from obligations, he set to work. Pacing the study, he went over what he'd compiled. He mumbled various lines of the poems to himself as he revised and tweaked things to get it just so; he certainly wouldn't settle for less than perfection, and that, naturally, required a good deal of editing. He'd been cloistered away up here in his study for the better part of the day now, and he hadn't even stopped to pay heed to mealtimes.

"I galloped, racing with the setting sun,

And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,

I stood within Ravenna's walls at last,"

mumbled Oscar, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I think that's quite good enough... I daresay this one's ready enough for publishing. Now what did I do with the manuscript for Eleutheria?" mused he.

A sharp rapping on the door startled him from his reverie, and he started, dropping the papers he'd been rifling through on the floor. Quite naturally irate at the unexpected turn of events, he stooped and began gathering the papers while irritably calling out for the intruder to enter.

Frank popped around the door, ever his jovial self; he had a broad smile on his face and a dastardly gleam in his eyes. "I say, Oscar, you've been here all day! Whatever have you been up to, old boy?"

Glaring quite unabashedly at his friend, Oscar stacked the papers on the desk and crossed his arms. "Have you the faintest idea how obnoxious it is to be interrupted in an important train of thought?" inquired he.

"I'm sure I haven't. When have you ever known me to have an important train of thought to interrupt?" inquired Frank. "I'm sure I haven't ever had an important thought in my life; excepting, perhaps, the thought of what to eat — I daresay that's important. It is important, in fact. Nothing could be—"

"Here now," scolded Oscar. "Do shut up, and make yourself useful. You may as well listen to what I've got so far. I've been needing a second opinion on this one poem, Endymion. Yes, I think you may as well sit there and listen now that you've disrupted my train of thought on the other pieces."

Ever the obliging one, Frank sat down in the leather armchair by the fire as Oscar cleared his throat and began. Frank listened with as much attention as he was wont to give to anything; that is to say, he paid very little attention to much of it. The last stanza or so, however, didn't fail to capture his fleeting attention; it quite roused him from his drowsy disinterest.

"False moon! False moon! O waning moon!" proclaimed Oscar.

"Where is my own true lover gone,

Where are the lips vermillion,

The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon?

Why spread that silver pavilion,

Why wear that veil of drifting mist?

Ah! Thou hast young Endymion,

Thou hast lips that should be kissed!"

"I say! That's a bit of pretty scandal you're sticking your foot into, Oscar, you rascal."

"You mean to say you don't like it?" questioned Oscar, embarrassed. "Perhaps I ought to tone it down a bit? Is the performance too brazen for the tastes of my audience, do you think?"

"No, I like it fine, my friend! It's superb, and suitably shocking. I think one should always have some shocks in life. I'm quite certain this isn't different. No, I should say this will be a good, rousing piece for your collection. You hadn't better it, Oscar. Too much bettering of a good thing turns your good thing into something quite hideous; I've seen it myself, and I swear by that principle. Never fix something that's good enough; you'll only make it worse."

"I daresay you live by that principle too," said Oscar wryly.

"Well, I should hope not. Life would be awfully mundane if one did everything one ought. No, no... I said I swear by the principle; I don't believe I could live it... Though I often revoke that belief when it's convenient."

Oscar shook his head, bemused. Frank had an awfully bad habit of not following his own advice; but then, Oscar had long since discovered that this was a habit that was fashionably assumed by most in the upper circles of society. No one was who they seemed, and he supposed he had better not fault them for it; after all, his entire life revolved around making of himself whatever was sure to be well-received by his audience. Naturally, he wasn't in a position to judge.

"Well, in that case, I suppose I'll leave it as is. Shall I read another?" inquired Oscar.

Frank waved a languid hand. "No, no... You need to get out of this stuffy old office for a bit, my friend; and naturally, your mother has impeccable timing, as always. She's waiting in the sitting room."

Oscar blinked, dropping the manuscript back onto the desk and running a hand through his hair. "Why, whatever does she want?"

"Probably to hear a bit of that rousing poetry of yours. Hadn't you better bring it along? You wanted an audience, and I daresay you have one. She'll not balk at the titillating nature of your work, I wager."

"You'd better not wager, Frank," warned Oscar. "You're quite penniless enough as it is, and I don't doubt that you'll lose all of the remaining allowance you get if you do any more betting or gambling."

"Ah, but this is a bet I'm guaranteed to win," cried Frank, clapping his hands together.

"I should think so, but as I am also quite penniless at the moment, I simply must decline. Hadn't we better just see what she came by for instead of bickering over silly things like wagers?"

"Well," said Frank rather doubtfully. "I suppose we ought."

"I knew you'd see reason," murmured Oscar, collecting a few more of the poems from his desk and exiting the room.

Frank followed after a moment's hesitation; he really didn't hesitate long, of course, because he quite liked Mrs. Wilde's endearing company. And that was only natural because most of England found the "Speranza" as she called herself, to be a most delightfully entertaining woman; there were always those harridans who decried her for her way of dressing in haphazardly constructed outfits made of various odds and ends attached to random garments, but who truly listened to them anyway? Frank certainly didn't, and he sincerely doubted that anyone else did. Not that he paused to think about that thought or why he held that opinion for long; Frank wasn't much of an introspective person unless the subject matter was food; or women, as Frank, ever the ladies' man, adored them. Or so he led everyone to believe. One couldn't be quite sure what was going on in that man's head at any given point; that is, if anything was, in fact, going on at all.

The two stepped into the sitting room together with warm smiles and genuine greetings. After the usual pleasantries were over, Oscar asked, "Mother, it is wonderful to see you, but if it wouldn't be too rude to inquire of you... Why did you come?"

"Can't a woman visit her own son?" inquired Mrs. Wilde tritely.

"Well, I daresay she can. But you always have a purpose, mother dear. So what is it this time?" inquired Oscar mildly.

"I came to hear your recitation of the poetry you're putting into that volume. I am, naturally, completely confident that you don't need to edit further to have the work ready, but it never does harm to double-check the reception you get from an unbiased audience. Indeed, their opinion is quite indispensable, I've found. So? Go on then!" She settled back onto the chair by the fire and waited.

Oscar cleared his throat. "Ah... Well then! I say... Not quite what I expected you to want..."

Frank sat in the other chair and smiled saucily at Oscar.

Glaring at his cheeky friend — the natural response, of course, when you've been showed up and then mocked in a matter by anyone — Oscar riffled through his loose sheaves of paper, searching for just the right piece to read. "Well, here's a piece for you, then, Mother.

He was a Grecian lad, who coming home

With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam

Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,

And holding wave and wind in boy's despite

Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear

Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,

And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,

And bade the pilot head her lustily

Against the nor'west gale, and all day long

Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song."

He paused, looking up to ascertain his audience's reaction.

His mother waved a hand and smiled. "Continue on at least a few more stanzas, why don't you? Then perhaps you might read a bit from a couple others? I haven't a lot of time to visit, I'm afraid, but I wanted to drop by and at least hear a bit."

With the expected acquiescence, Oscar continued on.

"And when the faint Corinthian hills were red

Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,

And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,

And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,

And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold

Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

And a rich robe stained with the fishers' juice

Which of some swarthy trader he had bought

Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,

And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,

And by the questioning merchants made his way

Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,

Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet

Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd

Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat

Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring

The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang

His studded crook against the temple wall

To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang

Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;

And then the clear-voiced maidens 'gan to sing,

And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,

A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery

Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb

Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee

Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil

Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil

Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid

To please Athena, and the dappled hide

Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade

Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,

And from the pillared precinct one by one

Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done."

"That is interesting, certainly, my son. Which piece is that?" inquired his mother.

"I titled it Charmides."

"Lovely name... Well, what else have you got?" asked she.

"How about 'In The Gold Room'?"

"It promises to be interesting," said she. "Read on."

"Her ivory hands on the ivory keys

Strayed in a fitful fantasy,

Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees

Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,

Or the drifting foam of a restless sea

When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold

Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun

On the burnished disk of the marigold,

Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun

When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,

And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine

Burned like the ruby fire set

In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,

Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,

Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet

With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine."

"Very fine, very fine!" cried his mother. "You've done a splendid job, my dear son. When shall you take all of this down to be printed?"

"By the end of the week, I should think," said Oscar, blushing. "I hope to have it distributed around England within a few months' time."

"And I daresay you shall! This is bound to create quite the sensation; you'll be the talk of England, I wager... Think of it, Oscar! This might be the very thing that sets off your career as a poet. You'll succeed where your poor brother, Willie, failed, bless his heart. I shan't see another of my sons work for his own ruination, I should think. No, not if all this goes as I envision. But now, I simply must be off, Oscar, darling. I'll see you round for dinner," said his mother with a winsome smile.

"That you shall, mother, dear." Oscar saw her to the door with a warm smile and hearty farewell.

"See? What did I tell you, old boy?" cried Frank, slapping him on the back. "A sensation, she says! You're bound to make it big, she thinks. Same as I told you, but now there's less doubt, I should think, in that queerly serious head of yours; you can't have doubts when your own mother, the famous Speranza, backs this up. I say you go down to that printer's shop tomorrow and get it printed. Why wait? It just takes up time for no good reason; it's time wasted that could be used to print and circulate your work!"

Oscar frowned. "That is true... And you truly think it's fine as is?"

"Oscar, dear boy, you revised and rewrote those poems well over ten times when you first wrote them. If you add more, you'll make a mess of the matter; remember what I said about improving a good thing? Well, that's what you're trying to do. And you'll only botch the whole thing if you do that. So you hadn't better it anymore; and you'd best take it down to Bogue's for printing first thing tomorrow."

Sighing, Oscar nodded. "I suppose it's only the truth you tell; for once, I do believe you're right. So I shall take your advice and go round to Bogue's tomorrow to give him the work to be printed."

"That's the spirit!" cried Frank jovially, prancing off.

7