"Believe me, my dear Mrs. Boldero," said he, "I am second only to you in my admiration and grief, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep your husband's memory green. But it is green, thank goodness. How do I know? By two signs. One that people wherever the English language is spoken are eagerly reading his books—I say reading, because you deprecate the purely commercial side of things; but you must forgive me if I say that the only proof of all their reading is the record of all their buying. And when people buy and read an author to this prodigious extent, they also discuss him. Adrian Boldero's name is a household word. You want advertisement and an édition de luxe. But it is only the little man that needs the big drum."
"But still, Mr. Wittekind," Doria urged, "an édition de luxe would be such a beautiful monument to him. I don't care a bit about the money," she went on with a splendid disregard of her rights that would have sent a shiver down the incorporated back of the Incorporated Society of Authors, "I'm only too willing to contribute towards the expense. Please understand me. It's a tribute and a monument."
"You only put up monuments to those who are dead," said Wittekind.
"But my husband—"
"—isn't dead," said he.
"Oh!" said Doria. "Then—"
"The time for your édition de luxe is not yet."
"Yet? But—you don't think Adrian's work is going to die?"
She looked at him tragically. He reassured her.
"Certainly not. Our future sumptuous edition will be a sign that he is among the immortals. But an édition de luxe now would be a wanton Hic jacet."