In these early stages of our acquaintance with Liosha, she counted in our lives for little more than a freakish interest.  Even in the crises of her naughtiness anxiety as to her welfare did not rob us of our night’s sleep.  She existed for us rather as a toy personality whose quaint vagaries afforded us constant amusement than as an intense human soul.  The working out of her destiny did not come within the sphere of our emotional sympathies like that of Adrian and Doria.  The latter were of our own kind and class, bound to us not only by the common traditions of centuries, but by ties of many years’ affection.  It is only natural that we should have watched them more closely and involved ourselves more intimately in their scheme of things.

The first fine rapture of house-pride having grown calm, the Bolderos settled down to the serene beatitude of the Higher Life tempered by the amenities of commonplace existence.  When Adrian worked, Doria read Dante and attended performances of the Intellectual Drama; when Adrian relaxed, she cooked dainties in a chafing dish and accompanied him to Musical Comedy.  They entertained in a gracious modest way, and went out into cultivated society.  The Art of Life, they declared, was to catch atmosphere, whatever that might mean.  Adrian explained, with the gentle pity of one addressing himself to the childish intelligence.

“It’s merely the perfect freedom of mental adaptation.  To discuss pragmatism while eating oysters would be destructive to the enjoyment afforded by the delicate sense of taste, whereas, to let one’s mind wander from the plane of philosophic thought when preparing for a Hauptmann or a Strindberg play would lead to nothing less than the disaster of disequilibrium.”

Saying this he caught my cold, unsympathetic gaze, but I think I noticed the flicker of an eyelid.  Doria, however, nodded, in wide-eyed approval.  So I suppose they really did practise between themselves these modal gymnastics.  They were all of a piece with the “atmospheres” evoked in the various rooms of the flat.  To Barbara and myself, comfortable Philistines, all this appeared exceeding lunatic.  But every married couple has a right to lay out its plan of happiness in its own way.  If we had made taboo of irrelevant gossip between the acts of a serious play our evening would have been a failure.  Theirs would have been, and, in fact, was a success.  Connubial felicity they certainly achieved:  and what else but an impertinence is a criticism of the means?

Easter came.  They had been married six months.  “The Diamond Gate” had been published for nearly a year and was still selling in England and America.  Adrian flourishing his first half-yearly cheque in January had vowed he had no idea there was so much money in the world.  He basked in Fortune’s sunshine.  But for all the basking and all the syllabus of the perfect existence, and all his unquestionable love for Doria, and all her worship for him together