“What do you think of it—­as far as you’ve gone?”

My enthusiastic answer expressed the sincerity of my appreciation.  He positively blushed and looked at me rather guiltily, like a schoolboy detected in the act of helping an old woman across the road.

“It’s awful cheek,” said he, “but I was up against it.  The only alternative was to say the damn thing had been lost or burnt and take the consequences.  Somehow I thought of this.  I had written about half of it all in bits and pieces about three or four years ago and put it aside.  It wasn’t my job.  Then I pulled it out one day and read it and it seemed rather good, so, having the story in my head, I set to work.”

“And that’s why you didn’t go to Persia?”

“How the devil could I go to Persia?  I couldn’t write a novel on the back of a beastly camel!”

He walked a few steps in silence.  Then he said with a rumble of a laugh.

“I had an awful fright about that time.  I suddenly dried up; couldn’t get along.  I must have spent a week, night after night, staring at a blank sheet of paper.  I thought I had bitten off more than I could chew and was going the way of Adrian.  By George, it taught me something of the Hades the poor fellow must have passed through.  I’ve been in pretty tight corners in my day and I know what it is to have the cold fear creeping down my spine; but that week gave me the fright of my life.”

“I wish you had told me,” said I, “I might have helped.  Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t like to.  You see, if this idea hadn’t come off, I should have looked such a stupendous ass.”

“That’s a reason,” I admitted.

“And I didn’t tell you at first because you would have thought I was going off my chump.  I don’t look the sort of chap that could write a novel, do I?  You would have said I was attempting the impossible, like Adrian.  You and Barbara would have been scared to death and you would have put me off.”

Franklin came from the house.  Luncheon was on the table.  We hurried to the dining-room.  Jaffery sat down before a gigantic crab.

“Is it all right?” he asked.

“Doria has interceded for you,” said Barbara.  “You owe her your life.”

Doria smiled.  “It’s the least I could do for you.”

Jaffery grinned by way of delicate rejoinder and immersed himself in crab.  From its depths, as it seemed, he said: 

“Hilary has read half the book.”

“What do you think of it?” Barbara asked.

I repeated my dithyrambic eulogy.  Doria’s eyes shone.

“I do wish you could see your way to read it,” said Jaffery.

“I would give my heart to,” said Doria.  “But I’ve told you why I can’t.”

“Circumstances alter cases,” said I, platitudinously.  “In happier circumstances you would have been presented with the novelist’s fine, finished product.  As it happens, Jaffery has had to fill up little gaps, make bridges here and there.  I’m sure if you had been well enough,” I added, with a touch of malice, for I had not quite forgiven his leaving me in the dark, “Jaffery would have consulted you on many points.”