But Adrian—­the precious, finnikin Adrian—­how on earth could he have written this same epoch-making novel?  Beyond doubt he was a clever fellow.  He had obtained a First Class in the Law Tripos and had done well in his Bar examination.  But after fourteen years or so he was making twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession.  He made another three-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines.  He dined out a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being a very popular and agreeable person.  His other means of livelihood consisted of an allowance of four hundred a year made him by his mother.  Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself.  And now—­

“It is Adrian,” cried my wife, bursting into the library.  “I knew it was.  He has had several other glorious reviews which we haven’t seen.  Isn’t it splendid?”

Her eyes danced with loyalty and gladness.  Now that I too knew it was our Adrian I caught her enthusiasm.

“Splendid,” I echoed.  “To think of old Adrian making good at last!  I’m more than glad.  Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book.”

“Adrian is bringing one with him.  He’s coming down to dine and stay the night.  He said he had an engagement, but I told him it was rubbish, and he’s coming.”

Barbara had a despotic way with her men friends, especially with Adrian and Jaffery, who, each after his kind, paid her very pretty homage.

“And now, I’ve got a hundred things to do, so you must excuse me,” said Barbara—­for all the world as if I had invited her into my library and was detaining her against her will.

My reply was smilingly ironical.  She disappeared.  I returned to Hafiz.  Soon a bumble-bee, a great fellow splendid in gold and black and crimson, blundered into the room and immediately made furious racket against a window pane.  Now I can’t concentrate my mind on serious things, if there’s a bumble-bee buzzing about.  So I had to get up and devote ten minutes to persuading the dunderhead to leave the glass and establish himself firmly on the piece of paper that would waft him into the open air and sunlight.  When I lost sight of him in the glad greenery I again came back to my work.  But two minutes afterwards my little seven year old daughter, rather the worse for amateur gardening, and holding a cage of white mice in her hand, appeared on the threshold, smiled at me with refreshing absence of apology, darted in, dumped the white mice on an open volume of my precious Turner Macan’s edition of Firdusi, and clambering into my lap and seizing pencil and paper, instantly ordained my participation in her favourite game of “head, body and legs.”

An hour afterwards a radiant angel of a nurse claimed her for purposes of ablution.  I once more returned to Hafiz.  Then Barbara put her head in at the door.

“Haven’t you thought how delighted Doria will be?”

“I haven’t,” said I.  “I’ve more important things to think about.”