o catch
atmosphere, whatever that might mean. Adrian explained, with the gentle
pity of one addressing himself to the childish intelligence.

"It's merely the perfect freedom of mental adaptation. To discuss
pragmatism while eating oysters would be destructive to the enjoyment
afforded by the delicate sense of taste, whereas, to let one's mind
wander from the plane of philosophic thought when preparing for a
Hauptmann or a Strindberg play would lead to nothing less than the
disaster of disequilibrium."

Saying this he caught my cold, unsympathetic gaze, but I think I noticed
the flicker of an eyelid. Doria, however, nodded, in wide-eyed approval.
So I suppose they really did practise between themselves these modal
gymnastics. They were all of a piece with the "atmospheres" evoked in
the various rooms of the flat. To Barbara and myself, comfortable
Philistines, all this appeared exceeding lunatic. But every married
couple has a right to lay out its plan of happiness in its own way. If
we had made taboo of irrelevant gossip between the acts of a serious
play our evening would have been a failure. Theirs would have been, and,
in fact, was a success. Connubial felicity they certainly achieved: and
what else but an impertinence is a criticism of the means?

Easter came. They had been married six months. "The Diamond Gate" had
been published for nearly a year and was still selling in England and
America. Adrian flourishing his first half-yearly cheque in January had
vowed he had no idea there was so much money in the world. He basked in
Fortune's sunshine. But for all the basking and all the syllabus of the
perfect existence, and all his unquestionable love for Doria, and all
her worship for him together with its manifestation in her admirable
care for his material well-being, Adrian, just at this Eastertide, began
to strike me as a man lacking some essential of happiness. They spent a
week or so with us at Northlands. Adrian confessed dog-weariness. His
looks confirmed his words. A vertical furrow between the brows and a
little dragging line at each corner of the mouth below the fair
moustache forbade the familiar mockery in his pleasant face. In moments
of repose the cross of strain, almost suggestive of a squint, appeared
in his blue eyes. He was no longer debonair, no longer the lightly
laughing philosopher, the preacher of paradox seeing flippancy in the
Money Article and sorrowful wisdom in Little Tich. He was morose