r, and would grin and roar and expect her to shew evidence
of ravished senses. She did her best, poor child, out of politeness and
recognition of his desire to alleviate her lot; but I don't think the
gramophone conveyed to her heart the poor dear fellow's unspoken
message. But gently criticising the banality of the tunes the thing
played and sending him forth in quest of records of recondite and
"unrecorded" music, she succeeded in mitigating the terror. To the
present moment, however, I don't think Jaffery has realised that she had
a higher aesthetic equipment than the 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 wido