"Have you read the paper this morning?"
"I've glanced through the Times," said I.
She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a bed-spread or two—("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded Times," said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed—and shed Vallombrosa leaves of the Daily Telegraph about the library until she had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a mangled sheet before my eyes.
"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"
"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.
"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.