Jaffery | Page 7

The rare phenomenon
of the instantaneous success of a first book by an unknown author was
occurring also in America. Golden opinions were being backed by
golden cash. Adrian continued to draw on his publishers, who,
fortunately for them, had an American house. Anticipating possible
alluring proposals from other publishers, they offered what to him were
dazzling and fantastic terms for his next two novels. He accepted. He
went about the world wearing Fortune like a halo. He achieved sudden
fame; fame so widespread that Mr. Jornicroft heard of it in the city,
where he promoted (and still promotes) companies with monotonous
success. The result was an interview to which Adrian came wisely
armed with a note from his publisher as to sales up to date, and the
amazing contract which he had just signed. He left the house with a
father's blessing in his ears and an affianced bride's kisses on his lips.
The wedding was fixed for September. Adrian declared himself to be
the happiest of God's creatures and spent his days in joy-sodden
idleness. His mother, with tears in her eyes, increased his allowance.
The book that created all this commotion, I frankly admit, held me
spellbound. It deserved the highest encomiums by the most enthusiastic
reviewers. It was one of the most irresistible books I had ever read. It
was a modern high romance of love and pity, of tears iridescent with
laughter, of strong and beautiful though erring souls; it was at once
poignant and tender; it vibrated with drama; it was instinct with calm
and kindly wisdom. In my humility, I found I had not known my
Adrian one little bit. As the shepherd of old who had a sort of
patronizing affection for the irresponsible, dancing, flute-playing,
goat-footed creature of the woodland was stricken with panic when he
recognised the god, so was I convulsed when I recognised the genius of
my friend Adrian. And the fellow still went on dancing and
flute-playing and I stared at him open-mouthed.
Mr. Jornicroft, who was a widower, gave a great dinner party at his
house in Park Crescent, in honour of the engagement. My wife and I
attended, fishes somewhat out of water amid this brilliant but solid
assembly of what it pleased Barbara to call "merchantates." She

expressed a desire to shrink out of the glare of the diamonds; but she
wore her grandmother's pearls, and, being by far the youngest and
prettiest matron present, held her own with the best of them. There
were stout women, thin women, white-haired women, women who
ought to have been white-haired, but were not; sprightly and
fashionable women; but besides Barbara, the only other young woman
was Doria herself.
She took us aside, as soon as we were released from the formal
welcome of Mr. Jornicroft, a thickset man with a very bald head and
heavy black moustache.
"The sight of you two is like a breath of fresh air. Did you ever meet
with anything so stuffy?"
Now, considering that all these prosperous folks had come to do her
homage I thought the remark rather ungracious.
"It's apt to be stuffy in July in London," I said.
She laid her hand on Barbara's wrist and pointed at me with her fan.
"He thinks he's rebuking me. But I don't care. I'm glad to see him all
the same. These people mean nothing but money and music-halls and
bridge and restaurants--I'm so sick of it. You two mean something
else."
"Don't speak sacrilegiously of restaurants, even though you are going to
marry a genius," said I. "There is one in Paris to which Adrian will take
you straight--like a homing bird."
"Wherever Adrian takes me, it will be beautiful," she said defiantly.
My little critical humour vanished, for she looked so valiantly adorable
in her love for the man. She was very small and slenderly made, with
dark hair, luminous eyes, and ivory-white complexion, a sensitive nose
and mouth, a wisp of nerves and passion. She carried her head high and,
for so diminutive a person, appeared vastly important.

Adrian, released from an ex-Lady Mayoress, came up all smiles, to
greet us. Doria gave him a glance which in spite of my devotion to
Barbara and my abhorrence of hair's breadth deviation from strict
monogamy dealt me a pang of unregenerate jealousy. There is only one
man in the universe worthy of being so regarded by a woman; and he is
oneself. Every true-minded man will agree with me. She was
inordinately proud of him; proud too of herself in that she had believed
in him and given him her love long before he became famous. Adrian's
eyes softened as they met the glance. He turned to Barbara.
"It's in a crowd like this that she looks so mysterious--an