final spurt in London and the
achievement of the masterpiece.

Meanwhile we played the annual comedy of our August migration; the only
change being that instead of Dinard we went to the West Coast of
Scotland to stay with some of Barbara's relatives. One gleam of joy
irradiated that grey and dismal sojourn--the news that Jaffery, his
mission in Crim Tartary being accomplished, would be home for Christmas.
Our host and hostess were sporting folk with red, weatherbeaten faces
and a mania (which they expected us to share) for salmon-fishing in the
pouring rain. As neither Barbara nor I were experts--I always trembled
lest a strong young fish getting hold of the end of Barbara's line
should whisk her over like a feather into the boiling current--and as
for myself, I prefer the more contemplative art of bottom fishing from a
punt in dry weather--our friends caught all the salmon, while we merely
caught colds in the head. Many an hour of sodden misery was cheered by
the whispered word of comfort: Jaffery would be home for Christmas. And
when, at ten o'clock in the evening, just as we were beginning to awake
from the nightmare of the day, and to desire sprightly conversation, our
host and hostess fell into a lethargy, and staggered off to slumber, we
beguiled the hour before bedtime with talk of Jaffery's homecoming.

At last we escaped and took the good train south. The Bolderos had
already returned to London. They came to spend our first week-end at
Northlands. Adrian professed to be in the robustest of health and to
have not a care in the world. The holiday, said he, had done him
incalculable good. Already he had begun to work in the full glow of
inspiration. We thought him looking old and hag-ridden, but Doria seemed
happy. She had her own reason for happiness, which she confided to
Barbara. It would be early in the New Year. . . . Her eyes, I noticed,
were filled with a new and wonderful love for Adrian. On the Sunday
afternoon as we were sauntering about the garden, Adrian touched upon
the subject in a man's shy way when speaking to his fellow man.

"Why," said I with a laugh, "that's just about the time you expect the
book to be out."

He gave me a queer, slanting look. "Yes," said he, "they'll both be born
together."

That night, to my consternation and sorrow, he went to bed quite fuddled
with whisky.

CHAPTER X

Never shall I forget that Christmastide. Its shadow has fallen on every
Christmas since t