ear man," said I, pacifically. "Probably you're right
and I'm wrong. I was only talking lightly. And speaking of
imagination--what about your next book?"

"Oh, damn the next book," said he, flicking the ash off his cigarette.
"I've got an idea, of course. A jolly good idea. But I'm not worrying
about it yet."

"Why?" I asked.

He threw his cigarette into the grate. How, in the name of common sense,
could he settle down to work? Wasn't his head full of his approaching
marriage? Could he see at present anything beyond the thing of dream and
wonder that was to be his wife? I was a cold-blooded fish to talk of
novel-writing.

"But you'll have to get into it sometime or other," said I.

"Of course. As soon as we come back from Venice, and settle down to a
normal life in the flat."

"What does Doria think of the new idea?"

Thousands who knew him not were looking forward to Adrian Boldero's new
book. We, who loved him, were peculiarly interested. Somehow or other we
had not touched before so intimately on the subject. To my surprise he
frowned and snapped impatient fingers.

"I haven't told Doria anything about it. It isn't my way. My work's too
personal a thing, even for Doria. She understands. I know some fellows
tell their plots to any and everybody--and others, if they don't do
that, lay bare their artistic souls to those near and dear to them.
Well, I can't. A word, no matter how loving, of adverse criticism, a
glance even that was not sympathetic would paralyse me, it would shatter
my faith in the whole structure I had built up. I can't help it. It's my
nature. As I told you two or three months ago, it has always been my
instinct to work in the dark. I instanced my First at Cambridge. How
much more powerful is the instinct when it's a question of a vital
created thing like a novel? My dear Hilary, you're the man I'm fondest
of in the world. You know that. But don't worry me about my work. I
can't stand it. It upsets me. Doria, heart of my heart and soul of my
soul, has promised not to worry me. She sees I must be free from outside
influences--no matter how closely near--but still outside. And you must
promise too."

"My dear old boy," said I, somewhat confused by this impassioned
exposition of the artistic temperament, "you've only got to express the
wish--"

"I know," said he. "Forgive me." He laughed and lit another cigarette.
"But Wittekind and the editor of _Fowler's_ in America--I've sold him
the seri