“But,” said Barbara, entering and closing the door with soft deliberation behind her and coming to my side—­“if Adrian makes a big success, they’ll be able to marry.”

“Well?” said I.

“Well,” said she, with a different intonation.  “Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

It is wise to irritate your wife on occasion, so as to manifest your superiority.  She shook me by the collar and stamped her foot.

“Don’t you care a bit whether your friends get married or not?”

“Not a bit,” said I.

Barbara lifted the Macan’s Firdusi, still suffering the desecration of the forgotten cage of white mice, onto my manuscript and hoisted herself on the cleared corner of the table.

“Doria is my dearest friend.  She did my sums for me at school, although I was three years older.  If it hadn’t been for us, she and Adrian would never have met.”

“That I admit,” I interrupted.  “But having started on the path of crime we’re not bound to pursue it to the end.”

“You’re simply horrid!” she cried.  “We’ve talked for years of the sad story of these two poor young things, and now, when there’s a chance of their marrying, you say you don’t care a bit!”

“My dear,” said I, rising, “what with you and Adrian and a bumble-bee and the child and two white mice, and now Doria, my morning’s work is ruined.  Let us go out into the garden and watch the starlings resting in the walnut trees.  Incidentally we might discuss Doria and Adrian.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” said Barbara.

So we went into the garden—­and discussed the formation next autumn of a new rose-bed.

* * * * *

By the afternoon train came Adrian, impeccably vestured and feverish with excitement.  Two evening papers which he brandished nervously, proclaimed “The Diamond Gate” a masterpiece.  The book had been only out a week—­(we country mice knew nothing of it)—­and already, so his publisher informed him, repeat orders were coming in from the libraries and distributing agents.

“Wittekind, my publisher, declares it’s going to be the biggest thing in first novels ever known.  And though I say it as shouldn’t, dear old Hilary,”—­he clapped me on the shoulder—­“it’s a damned fine book.”

I shall always remember him as he said this, in the pride of his manhood, a defiant triumph in his eyes, his head thrown back, and a smile revealing the teeth below his well-trimmed moustache.  He had conquered at last.  He had put poor old Jaffery and fortune-favoured me in the shade.  At one leap he had mounted to planes beyond our dreams.  All this his attitude betokened.  He removed the hand from my shoulder and flourished it in a happy gesture.

“My fortune’s made,” he cried.

“But, my dear fellow,” I asked, “why have you sprung this surprise on us?  I had no idea you were writing a novel.”

He laughed.  “No one had.  Not even Doria.  It was on her account I kept it secret.  I didn’t want to arouse possible false hopes.  It’s very simple.  Besides, I like being a dark horse.  It’s exciting.  Don’t you remember how paralysed you all were when I got my First at Cambridge?  Everybody thought I hadn’t done a stroke of work—­but I had sweated like mad all the time.”