The book that created all this commotion, I frankly admit, held me
spellbound. It deserved the highest encomiums by the most enthusiastic
reviewers. It was one of the most irresistible books I had ever read. It
was a modern high romance of love and pity, of tears iridescent with
laughter, of strong and beautiful though erring souls; it was at once
poignant and tender; it vibrated with drama; it was instinct with calm
and kindly wisdom. In my humility, I found I had not known my Adrian one
little bit. As the shepherd of old who had a sort of patronizing
affection for the irresponsible, dancing, flute-playing, goat-footed
creature of the woodland was stricken with panic when he recognised the
god, so was I convulsed when I recognised the genius of my friend
Adrian. And the fellow still went on dancing and flute-playing and I
stared at him open-mouthed.

Mr. Jornicroft, who was a widower, gave a great dinner party at his
house in Park Crescent, in honour of the engagement. My wife and I
attended, fishes somewhat out of water amid this brilliant but solid
assembly of what it pleased Barbara to call "merchantates." She
expressed a desire to shrink out of the glare of the diamonds; but she
wore her grandmother's pearls, and, being by far the youngest and
prettiest matron present, held her own with the best of them. There were
stout women, thin women, white-haired women, women who ought to have
been white-haired, but were not; sprightly and fashionable women; but
besides Barbara, the only other young woman was Doria herself.

She took us aside, as soon as we were released from the formal welcome
of Mr. Jornicroft, a thickset man with a very bald head and heavy black
moustache.