.

"My life," said he, in a queer toned voice, that wasn't Jaffery's at
all, "my life is only an expression of your wishes. I'll do as you say."

"It's for Adrian's sake, dear Jaffery," said Doria.

Jaffery passed his great glazed hand over his stricken face, from the
roots of his hair to the point of his beard, and seemed to wipe
therefrom all traces of day-infesting cares, revealing the sunny
Reubens-like features that we all loved.

"But apart from my amateur joining of the flats, you think the book's
worthy of Adrian?"

"Oh, I do," she cried passionately. "I do. It's a work of genius. It's
Adrian in all his maturity, in all his greatness!"

The door opened.

"Dinner is served, madam," said Franklin.

CHAPTER XV

When, by way of comforting Jaffery, I criticised Doria's outburst, he
fell upon me as though about to devour me alive. After what he had done
for her, said I, given up one of the great chances of his career,
carried her bodily from London to Nice, and made her a present of a
brilliant novel so as to save Adrian's memory from shame, she ought to
go on her knees and pray God to shower blessings on his head. As it was,
she deserved whipping.

Jaffery called me, among other things, an amazing ass--he has an Eastern
habit of, facile vituperation--and roared about the drawing-room. The
ladies, be it understood, had retired.

"You don't seem to grip the elements of the situation. You haven't the
intelligence of a rabbit. How in Hades could she know I've written the
rotten book? She thinks it's Adrian's. And she thinks I've spoiled it.
She's perfectly justified. For the little footling services I rendered
her on the journey, she's idiotically grateful--out of all proportion.
As for Persia, she knows nothing about it--"

"She ought to," said I.

"If you tell her, I'll break your neck," roared Jaffery.

"All right," said I, desiring to remain whole. "So long as you're
satisfied, it doesn't much matter to me."

It didn't. After all, one has one's own life to live, and however
understanding of one's friends and sympathetically inclined towards
them one may be, one cannot follow them emotionally through all their
bleak despairs and furious passions. A man doing so would be dead in a
week.

"It doesn't seem to strike you," he went on, "that the poor girl's
mental and moral balance depends on the successful carrying out of this
ghastly farce."

"I do, my dear chap."

"You don't. I wrote the