This was quite true, the sudden brilliance of the end of Adrian’s University career had dazzled the whole of his acquaintance.  Barbara, impatient of retrospect, came to the all-important point.

“How does Doria take it?”

He turned on her and beamed.  He was one of those dapper, slim-built men who can turn with quick grace.

“She’s as pleased as Punch.  Gave it to old man Jornicroft to read and insisted on his reading it.  He’s impressed.  Never thought I had it in me.  Can’t see, however, where the commercial value of it comes in.”

“Wait till you show him your first thumping cheque,” sympathised my wife.

“I’m going to,” he exclaimed boyishly.  “I might have done it this afternoon.  Wittekind was off his head with delight and if I had asked him to give me a bogus cheque for ten thousand to show to old man Jornicroft, he would have written it without a murmur.”

“How much did he really write a cheque for this afternoon?” I asked, knowing (as I have said before) my Adrian.

Barbara looked shocked.  “Hilary!” she remonstrated.

But Adrian laughed in high good humour.  “He gave me a hundred pounds on account.”

“That won’t impress Mr. Jornicroft at all,” said I.

“It impressed my tailor, who cashed it, deducting a quarter of his bill.”

“Do you mean to say, my dear Adrian,” I questioned, “that you went to your tailor with a cheque for a hundred pounds and said, ’I want to pay you a quarter of what I owe you, will you give me change?’”

“Of course.”

“But why didn’t you pass the cheque through your banking account and post him your own cheque?”

“Did you ever hear such an innocent?” he cried gaily.  “I wanted to impress him, I did.  One must do these things with an air.  He stuffed my pockets with notes and gold—­there has never been any one so all over money as I am at this particular minute—­and then I gave him an order for half-a-dozen suits straight away.”

“Good God!” I cried aghast.  “I’ve never had six suits of clothes at a time since I was born.”

“And more shame for you.  Look!” said he, drawing my wife’s attention to my comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment.  “I love you, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame.”

“Hilary,” said my wife, “the next time you go to town you’ll order half-a-dozen suits and I’ll come with you to see you do it.  Who is your tailor, Adrian?”

He gave the address.  “The best in London.  And if you go to him on my introduction—­Good Lord!”—­it seemed to amuse him vastly—­“I can order half-a-dozen more!”

All this seemed to me, who am not devoid of a sense of humour and an appreciation of the pleasant flippancies of life, somewhat futile and frothy talk, unworthy of the author of “The Diamond Gate” and the lover of Doria Jornicroft.  I expressed this opinion and Barbara, for once, agreed with me.