“I see,” said I, “that you intend having the time of your life.”

* * * * *

My prevision proved correct.  In August came the engaged couple and every day Barbara took them up to town and whirled them about from house-agent to house-agent until she found a flat to suit them, and then from emporium to emporium until she found furniture to suit the flat, and from raiment-vendor to raiment-vendor until she equipped Doria to suit the furniture.  She used to return almost speechless with exhaustion; but pantingly and with the glaze of victory in her eyes, she fought all her battles o’er again and told of bargains won.  In the meantime had it not been for Susan, I should have lived in the solitude of an anchorite.  We spent much time in the garden which we (she less conscious of irony than I) called our desert island.  I was Robinson Crusoe and she was Man Friday, and on the whole we were quite happy; perhaps I should have been happier in a temperature of 80 deg. in the shade if I had not been forced to wear the Polar bear rug from the drawing-room in representation of Crusoe’s goatskins.  I did suggest that I should be Robinson Crusoe’s brother, who wore ordinary flannels, and that she should be Woman Wednesday.  But Susan saw through the subterfuge and that game didn’t work.  One afternoon, however, Barbara, returning earlier than usual, caught us at it and expressing horror and indignation at the uses to which the bearskin was put, metaphorically whipped me and sent me to bed as being the elder of the naughty ones.  After that we played at fairies in a glade, which was much cooler.

It was in the evenings that I was loneliest; for then Barbara went early to bed, and the lovers strolled about together in the moonlight.  With the intention, half-malicious, half-pitiful, of filling up my time, Doria taught me a new and complicated Patience.  Then finally, when Doria, having spent a couple of polite minutes in the drawing-room, had retired, and when I was tired out from the strain of the day and half-asleep through weariness, Adrian would mix himself the longest possible brandy and soda, light the longest possible cigar and try to keep me up all night listening to his conversation.

At last, one Friday evening, while I was engaged in my forlorn and unprofitable game, the butler entered the drawing-room with unperturbed announcement: 

“Mr. Chayne on the telephone, sir.”

I sent the card table flying amid the wreckage of my lay-out and rushed to the telephone.

“Hullo!  That you, Jaff?”

“Yes, old man.  Very much me.  A devil of a lot of me.  How are you?”

His strong bass boomed through the receiver.  I have always found a queer comfort in Jaffery’s voice.  It wraps you round about in thundering waves.  We exchanged the commonplaces of delighted greeting.  I asked: 

“When did you arrive?”

“A couple of days ago.”