ian kind of chastity. Here I agreed
with him.

"All the less reason," said I, "for you to stay in London, so as to look
after her."

"But I don't like her to be seen about in the fellow's company. She'll
get a bad name."

"Look here," said I, "the idea of a vast, hairy chap like you devoting
his life to keeping a couple of young widows out of mischief is too
preposterous. Try me with something else."

Then, being in good humour, he told me the real reason. He was writing
another book.

He was writing another novel and he did not want any one to know. He was
getting along famously. He had had the story in his head for a long
time. Glad to talk about it; sketched the outline very picturesquely.
Perhaps I was more vitally interested in the development of the man
Jaffery than in the story. A queer thing had happened. The born novelist
had just discovered himself and clamoured for artistic self-expression.
He was writing this book just because he could not help it, finding
gladness in the mere work, delighting in the mechanics of the thing, and
letting himself go in the joy of the narrative. What was going to become
of it when written, I did not enquire. It was rather too delicate a
matter. Jaffery Chayne could be nothing else than Jaffery Chayne. A new
novel published by him would resemble "The Greater Glory" as closely as
"Pendennis" resembles "Philip." And then there would be the deuce to
pay. If he published it under his own name, he would render himself
liable to the charge of having stolen a novel from the dead author of
"The Greater Glory," and so complicate this already complicated web of
literary theft; and if he threw sufficient dust into the eyes of Doria
to enable him to publish under Adrian's name, he would be performing the
task of the altruistic bees immortalised by Virgil.

Anyhow, there he was, perfectly happy, pegging away at his novel,
looking after Doria, pretending to look after Liosha, and enjoying the
society of the few cronies, chiefly adventurous birds of passage like
himself, who happened to be passing through London. Being a man of
modest needs, save need of mere bulk of simple food, he found his small
patrimony and the savings from his professional earnings quite adequate
for amenable existence. When he wanted healthy, fresh air he came down
to us to see Susan; when he wanted anything else he went to see Doria,
which was almost daily.

Doria was living now in the flat surrounded by the La