"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!"

"Adrian?" said I. "Well, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrian is capable
of anything. Nothing he did would ever surprise me. He might write a
sonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tin
cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful,
charming, futile Adrian."

Barbara pished and insisted. "But this is apparently a wonderful novel.
There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding book
published in our generation. Look! A work of genius."

"Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrian.

"Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, thrusting the paper
at me in a superior manner.

I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himself
Adrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate," which a
usually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius.
He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. The
review impressed me.

"Barbara, my dear," said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian."

"How many people in the world are called Adrian Boldero?"

"Thousands," said I.

She pished again and tossed her pretty head.