Jaffery | Page 4

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."
"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