urbing you, Hilary?"

She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of
spring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum,
that I put down my pen and I smiled.

"You are, my dear," said I, "but it doesn't matter."

"What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold.

"I am writing my presidential address," said I, "for the Grand Meeting,
next month, of the Hafiz Society."

"I wonder," said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet."

I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand.

"If that's all you've got to say--"

"But it isn't."

She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my long
oak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely in
my chair.

"Then, what is it?" I asked.

"Have you read the paper this morning?"

"I've glanced through the _Times_," said I.

She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a
bed-spread or two--("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_,"
said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shed
Vallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until she
had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a
mangled sheet before my eyes.

"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.

"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!"

"Adrian?" said I. "Well, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrian is capable
of anything. Nothing he did would ever surprise me. He might write a
sonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tin
cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful,
charming, futile Adrian."

Barbara pished and insisted. "But this is apparently a wonderful novel.
There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding book
published in our generation. Look! A work of genius."

"Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrian.

"Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, thrusting the paper
at me in a superior manner.

I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himself
Adrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate," which a
usually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius.
He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. The
review impressed me.

"Barbara, my dear," said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian."

"How