having something to sit upon
and something to write at and a few necessary reference books and a
lock-up place, we should have had nothing in the room at all. When
Adrian wants to relax and live his ordinary human life, he only has to
walk out of the door and there he is in the midst of beautiful things."

"Oh, I quite see, dear," said Barbara, with a familiar little flash in
her blue eyes. "But do you think a leather seat for that hard wooden
chair--what the French call a _rond-de-cuir_--would very greatly impair
the poor fellow's imagination?"

"It might be economical, too," said I, "in the way of saving
shininess!--"

Adrian laughed. "It does look a bit hard, darling," said he.

"We'll get a leather seat to-day," replied Doria.

But she did not smile. Evidently to her the spot on which Adrian sat was
sacrosanct. The room was the Holy of Holies where mortal man put on
immortality. Flippant comment sounded like blasphemy in her ears. She
even grew somewhat impatient at our lingering in the august precincts,
although they had not yet been consecrated by inspired labour. Their
unblessed condition was obvious. On the large library table were a
couple of brass candlesticks with fresh candles (Adrian could not work
by electric light), a couple of reams of scribbling paper, an inkpot, an
immaculate blotting pad, three virgin quill pens (it was one of Adrian's
whimsies to write always with quills), lying in a brass dish, and an
office stationery case closed and aggressively new. The sight of this
last monstrosity, I thought, would play the deuce with my imagination
and send it on a devastating tour round the Tottenham Court Road, but
not having the artistic temperament and catching a glance of challenge
from Doria, I forebore to make ignorant criticism.

In the bedroom while Barbara was putting on her veil and powdering her
nose (this may be what grammarians call a _hysteron proteron_--but with
women one never can tell)--Doria broke into confidences not meet for
masculine ears.

* * * * *

"Oh, darling," she cried, looking at Barbara with great awe-stricken
eyes, "you can't tell what it means to be married to a genius like
Adrian. I feel like one of the Daughters of Men that has been looked
upon by one of the Sons of God. It's so strange. In ordinary life he's
so dear and human--responsive, you know, to everything I feel and
think--and sometimes I quite forget he's different from me. B