ssful business his own way? Doria loftily
assured me that she had no interest in his business, in the mere vulgar
number of copies sold. Adrian's glory was above such sordid things. Of
far higher importance was it that his name should be kept, like a
beacon, before the public. Not to do so was callous ingratitude and
tradesman's niggardliness on the part of Wittekind. Something ought to
be done. I confessed my inability to do anything.

"I know you have nothing to do with the literary side of the
executorship. Jaffery undertook it. And now, instead of looking after
his duties, he has gone on this impossible voyage."

Here was another grievance against the unfortunate Jaffery. I might have
asked her who drove him to Madagascar, for had she been kind, he would
have made short work of Liosha, after having rescued her from Fendihook,
and would have returned meekly to Doria's feet. But what would have been
the use? I was tired of these windy arguments with Doria, and worn out
with the awful irony of upholding our poor Adrian's genius.

"I'm sorry he's not here," said I, somewhat tartly, "because he might
have prevailed upon you to listen to common sense."

A little while after this, another firm of publishers announced an
_edition de luxe_ of the works of a brilliant novelist cut off like
Adrian in the flower of his age. It was printed on special paper and
illustrated by a famous artist, and limited to a certain number of
copies. This set Doria aflare. From Scotland, where she was paying one
of her restless visits, she sent me the newspaper cutting. If the
commercial organism, she said, that passed with Wittekind for a soul
would not permit him to advertise Adrian's spring book in his autumn
list, why couldn't he do like Mackenzie & Co., and advertise an _edition
de luxe_ of Adrian's two novels? And if Mackenzie & Co. thought it worth
while to bring out such an edition of an entirely second-rate author,
surely it would be to Wittekind's advantage to treat Adrian equally
sumptuously. I advised her to write to Wittekind. She did. Accompanied
by a fury of ink, she sent me his most courteous and sensible answer.
Both books were doing splendidly. There was every prospect of a golden
aftermath of cheap editions. The time was not ripe for an _edition de
luxe_. It would come, a pleasurable thing to look forward to, when other
sales showed signs of exhaustion.

"He talks about exhaustion," she wrote. "I suppose he means when he