"But, my dear Doria," cried Barbara, aghast, "we thought that Adrian was having quite a good time."
"You may think so, but he wasn't. Adrian's a gentleman and plays the game; but you must see it was very galling to him—and to me—to be treated like any stockbroker—or architect—or idle man about town."
"You are unfortunate in your examples," said I, intervening judicially. "Pray reflect that there are architects alive whose artistic genius is not far inferior to Adrian's."
"You know very well what I mean," she snapped.
"No, we don't, dear," said Barbara dangerously. "We think you're a little idiot and ought to be ashamed of yourself. We took the trouble to tell every one of those people that Adrian hated any reference to his work, and like decent folk they didn't refer to it. There—now round upon us."
The pallor deepened a shade in Doria's ivory cheek.
"You have put me in the wrong, I admit it. But I think it would have been better to let us know."
What could one do with such people? I was inclined to let them work out their salvation in their own eccentric fashion; but Barbara decided otherwise. When one's friends reached such a degree of lunacy as warranted confinement in an asylum, it was one's plain duty to look after them. So we continued to look after our genius and his worshipper, and we did it so successfully that before he left us he recovered his sleep in some measure, and lost the squinting look of strain in his eyes.
On the morning of their departure I mildly counselled him to temper his fine frenzy with common-sense.
"Knock off the night work," said I.