The first thing he did was to clamour for Adrian, the man of fame.  But the three Bolderos were not coming till the twenty-fourth.  Adrian was making one last glorious spurt, so Doria said, in order to finish the great book before Christmas.  We had not seen much of them during the autumn.  Trivial circumstances had prevented it.  Susan had had measles.  I had been laid up with a wrenched knee.  One side happened to be engaged when the other suggested a meeting.  A trumpery series of accidents.  Besides, Adrian, with his new lease of health and inspiration, had plunged deeper than ever into his work, so that it was almost impossible to get hold of him.  On the few occasions when he did emerge from his work-room into the light of friendly smiles, he gave glowing accounts of progress.  He was satisfying his poet’s dreams.  He was writing like an inspired prophet.  I saw him at the beginning of December.  His face was white and ghastly, the furrow had deepened between his brows, and the strained squint had become permanent in his eyes.  He laughed when I repeated my warnings of the spring.  Small wonder, said he, that he did not look robust; virtue was going from him into every drop of ink.  He could easily get through another month.

“And then”—­he clapped me on the shoulder—­“my boy—­you shall see!  It will be worth all the enfantement prodigieux.  You thought I was going off my chump, you dear old fuss-box.  But you were wrong.  So did Doria—­for a week or two.  Bless her! she’s an artist’s wife in ten million.”

“Have you thought of a title?” I asked.

“’God’,” said he.  “Yes—­’God’—­short like that.  Isn’t it good?”

I cried out that it was in the worst possible taste.  It would offend.  He would lose his public.  The Non-conformists and Evangelicals would be frightened by the very name.  He lost his temper and scoffed at my Early Victorianism.  “Little Lily and her Pet Rabbit” was the kind of title I admired.  He was going to call it “God.”

“My dear fellow, call it what you please,” said I, anxious to avoid a duel of plates and glasses, for we were lunching on opposite sides of a table at his club.

“I please to call it,” said he, “by the only conceivable title that is adequate to such a work.”  Then he laughed, with a gleam of his old charm, and filled up my wine glass.  “Anyhow, Wittekind, who has the commercial end of things in view, thinks it’s ripping.”  He lifted his glass.  “Here’s to ‘God.’”

“Here’s to the new book under a different name,” said I.

When I told Barbara about this, she rather agreed with Wittekind.  It all depended on the matter and quality of the book itself.

“Well, anyhow,” said I, abhorrent of dissension, “thank Heaven the wretched composition’s nearly finished.”