Pleasant garden, and my mind went irresistibly back to the old days and
then wandered on to the present. Tom was dead: I flourished, a
comfortable cumberer of the earth; Jaffery was doing something
idiotically desperate somewhere or the other--he was a war-correspondent
by trade (as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot-cross
buns), and a desperado by predilection--I had not heard from him for a
year; and now Adrian--if indeed the Adrian Boldero of the review was
he--had written an epoch-making novel.

But Adrian--the precious, finnikin Adrian--how on earth could he have
written this same epoch-making novel? Beyond doubt he was a clever
fellow. He had obtained a First Class in the Law Tripos and had done
well in his Bar examination. But after fourteen years or so he was
making twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession. He made another
three-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines. He dined
out a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being a
very popular and agreeable person. His other means of livelihood
consisted of an allowance of four hundred a year made him by his mother.
Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself. And now--

"It _is_ Adrian," cried my wife, bursting into the library. "I knew it
was. He has had several other glorious reviews which we haven't seen.
Isn't it splendid?"

Her eyes danced with loyalty and gladness. Now that I too knew it was
our Adrian I caught her enthusiasm.

"Splendid," I echoed. "To think of old Adrian making good at last! I'm
more than glad. Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book."