hypnotised fox-terrier in the advertisement. . . .  Jaffery also bought her puzzles and funny penny pavement toys and gallons of eau-de-cologne (which came in useful), and expensive scent (which she abominated), and stacks of new novels, and a fearsome machine of wood and brass and universal joints, by means of which an invalid could read and breakfast and write and shave all at the same time.  The only thing he did not give her—­the thing she craved more than all—­was a fresh-bound copy of Adrian’s book.

Obviously, as I have remarked, it was Doria that kept him out of Persia.  But I could not help thinking that this same Persian journey might have afforded a solution of the whole difficulty.  Despatched suddenly to that vaguely known country, he could have taken the mythical manuscript to revise on the journey:  the convoy could have been attacked by a horde of Kurds or such-like desperadoes, all could have been slain save a fortunate handful, and the manuscript could have been looted as an important political document and carried off into Eternity.  Doria would have hated Jaffery forever after; but his chivalrous aim would have been accomplished.  Adrian’s honour would have been safe.  But this simple way out never occurred to him.  Apparently he thought it wiser to sacrifice his career and remain in London so as to buoy Doria up with false hope, all the time praying God to burn down St. Quentin’s Mansions (where he lived) and Adrian’s portmanteau of rubbish and himself all together.

Suddenly, as soon as Doria could be moved, Mr. Jornicroft stepped in and carried her to the south of France.  Barbara and Jaffery and myself saw her off by the afternoon train at Charing Cross.  She was to rest in Paris for the night and the next day, and proceed the following night to Nice.  She looked the frailest thing under the sun.  Her face was startling ivory beneath her widow’s headgear.  She had scarcely strength to lift her head.  Mr. Jornicroft had made luxurious arrangements for her comfort—­an ambulance carriage from St. John’s Wood, a special invalid compartment in the train; but at the station, as at Doria’s wedding, Jaffery took command.  It was his great arms that lifted her feather-weight with extraordinary sureness and gentleness from the carriage, carried her across the platform and deposited her tenderly on her couch in the compartment.  Touched by his solicitude she thanked him with much graciousness.  He bent over her—­we were standing at the door and could not choose but hear: 

“Don’t you remember what I said the first day I met you?”

“Yes.”

“It stands, my dear; and more than that.”  He paused for a second and took her thin hand.  “And don’t you worry about that book.  You get well and strong.”

He kissed her hand and spoiled the gallantry by squeezing her shoulder—­half her little body it seemed to be—­and emerging from the compartment joined us on the platform.  He put a great finger on the arm of the rubicund, thickset, black-moustached Jornicroft.