rk places of the
earth and keep the world informed of history in the making. And it was a
business which could not possibly be carried on in the most cunningly
devised home that could be purchased at Harrod's Stores.

CHAPTER VIII

In the course of time Adrian and Doria returned from Venice, their heads
full of pictures and lagoons and palaces, and took proud possession of
their spacious flat in St. John's Wood. They were radiantly happy, very
much in love with each other. Having brought a common vision to bear
upon the glories of nature and art which they had beheld, they were
spared the little squabbles over matters of aesthetic taste which often
are so disastrous to the serenity of a honeymoon. Touchingly they
expounded their views in the first person plural. Even Adrian, whom I
must confess to have regarded as an unblushing egotist, seldom delivered
himself of an egotistical opinion. "We don't despise the Eclectics,"
said he. And--"We prefer the Lombardic architecture to the purely
Venetian," said Doria. And "we" found good in Italian wines and "we"
found nothing but hideousness in Murano glass. They were, therefore, in
perfect accord over decoration and furnishing. The only difference I
could see between them was that Adrian loved to wallow in the comfort of
a club or another person's house, but insisted on elegant austerity in
his own home, whereas Doria loved elegant austerity everywhere. So they
had a pure Jacobean entrance hall, a Louis XV drawing-room, an Empire
bedroom, and as far as I could judge by the barrenness of the apartment,
a Spartan study for Adrian.

On our first visit, they triumphantly showed us round the establishment.
We came last to the study.

"No really fine imaginative work," said Adrian, with a wave of the hand
indicating the ascetic table and chair, the iron safe, the bookcase and
the bare walls--"no really fine imaginative work can be done among
luxurious surroundings. Pictures distract one's attention, arm-chairs
and sofas invite to sloth. This is my ideal of a novelist's workshop."

"It's more like a workhouse," said Barbara, with a shiver. "Or a
condemned cell. But even a condemned cell would have a plank bed in it."

"You don't understand a bit," said Doria, with a touch of resentment at
adverse criticism of her paragon's idiosyncrasies, "although Adrian has
tried to explain it to you. It's specially arranged for concentration of
mind. If it weren't for the necessity of