"That I admit," I interrupted. "But having started on the path of crime
we're not bound to pursue it to the end."

"You're simply horrid!" she cried. "We've talked for years of the sad
story of these two poor young things, and now, when there's a chance of
their marrying, you say you don't care a bit!"

"My dear," said I, rising, "what with you and Adrian and a bumble-bee
and the child and two white mice, and now Doria, my morning's work is
ruined. Let us go out into the garden and watch the starlings resting in
the walnut trees. Incidentally we might discuss Doria and Adrian."

"Now you're talking sense," said Barbara.

So we went into the garden--and discussed the formation next autumn of a
new rose-bed.

* * * * *

By the afternoon train came Adrian, impeccably vestured and feverish
with excitement. Two evening papers which he brandished nervously,
proclaimed "The Diamond Gate" a masterpiece. The book had been only out
a week--(we country mice knew nothing of it)--and already, so his
publisher informed him, repeat orders were coming in from the libraries
and distributing agents.

"Wittekind, my publisher, declares it's going to be the biggest thing in
first novels ever known. And though I say it as shouldn't, dear old
Hilary,"--he clapped me on the shoulder--"it's a damned fine book."