t in her card. At the name of Mrs. Adrian Boldero, doors
flew open, and Doria marched straight away into Wittekind's comfortably
furnished private room. Wittekind himself, tall, loose-limbed,
courteous, the least tradesman-like person you can imagine, rose to
receive her. For some reason or the other, or more likely against
reason, she had pictured a rather soapy, smug little man hiding crafty
eyes behind spectacles; but here he was, obviously a man of good
breeding, who smiled at her most charmingly and gave her to understand
that she was the one person in the world whom he had been longing to
meet. And the office was not a sort of human _charcuterie_ hung round
with brains of authors for sale, but a quiet, restful place to which
valuable prints on the walls and a few bits of real Chippendale gave an
air of distinction. Doria admits to being disconcerted. She had come to
bite and she remained to smile. He seated her in a nice old armchair
with a beautiful back--she was sensitive to such things--and spoke of
Adrian as of his own blood brother. She had not anticipated such warmth
of genuine feeling, or so fine an appreciation of her Adrian's work.

"Believe me, my dear Mrs. Boldero," said he, "I am second only to you in
my admiration and grief, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep your
husband's memory green. But it is green, thank goodness. How do I know?
By two signs. One that people wherever the English language is spoken
are eagerly reading his books--I say reading, because you deprecate the
purely commercial side of things; but you must forgive me if I say that
the only proof of all their reading is the record of all their buying.
And when people buy and read an author to this prodigious extent, they
also discuss him. Adrian Boldero's name is a household word. You want
advertisement and an _edition de luxe_. But it is only the little man
that needs the big drum."

"But still, Mr. Wittekind," Doria urged, "an _edition de luxe_ would be
such a beautiful monument to him. I don't care a bit about the money,"
she went on with a splendid disregard of her rights that would have sent
a shiver down the incorporated back of the Incorporated Society of
Authors, "I'm only too willing to contribute towards the expense. Please
understand me. It's a tribute and a monument."

"You only put up monuments to those who are dead," said Wittekind.

"But my husband--"

"--isn't dead," said he.

"Oh!" said Doria. "Then--"

"Th