"But, my dear fellow," I asked, "why have you sprung this surprise on us? I had no idea you were writing a novel."
He laughed. "No one had. Not even Doria. It was on her account I kept it secret. I didn't want to arouse possible false hopes. It's very simple. Besides, I like being a dark horse. It's exciting. Don't you remember how paralysed you all were when I got my First at Cambridge? Everybody thought I hadn't done a stroke of work—but I had sweated like mad all the time."
This was quite true, the sudden brilliance of the end of Adrian's University career had dazzled the whole of his acquaintance. Barbara, impatient of retrospect, came to the all-important point.
"How does Doria take it?"
He turned on her and beamed. He was one of those dapper, slim-built men who can turn with quick grace.
"She's as pleased as Punch. Gave it to old man Jornicroft to read and insisted on his reading it. He's impressed. Never thought I had it in me. Can't see, however, where the commercial value of it comes in."
"Wait till you show him your first thumping cheque," sympathised my wife.
"I'm going to," he exclaimed boyishly. "I might have done it this afternoon. Wittekind was off his head with delight and if I had asked him to give me a bogus cheque for ten thousand to show to old man Jornicroft, he would have written it without a murmur."
"How much did he really write a cheque for this afternoon?" I asked, knowing (as I have said before) my Adrian.
Barbara looked shocked. "Hilary!" she remonstrated.