"The sentences," Delancey told me, "are rather long. I find the semicolon very useful for cumulative effects." A vast array of words policed by semi-colons. I felt a little dizzy. Would they be able to keep order? "Of course," he continued, "the interest is very largely psychological, but I regard the book mainly as a document--a social document. The fiction of to-day is the history of to-morrow." This seemed conclusive. The book could not have less than 700 pages. A social document with psychological interest and a double conflict. Why, it would be short at that. And then, one day, when Delancey's book had become to me a form of eternity, he arrived, breathless with excitement. "To all intents and purposes, it's finished," he gasped. "Thank God," I murmured faintly. "It will be an awful loss to me," he stated mournfully. "It isn't dead yet," I said with feeble jocularity. "It is sad to see your children leave you. To watch them step out into a cold, inhospitable world," he went on. "A warm, welcoming world," I amended dishonestly. "You haven't told me what it is called yet." "It isn't called anything. I want you to be its god-mother, Charlotte. What about 'Whither'?" "Too like a pamphlet," I was glad to be on firm ground again. "I thought about 'Fate's Laboratory,' but it isn't very rhythmical, is it?" "Not very," I agreed. "The question mark after the 'Whither' would look nice on the cover," he reflected regretfully. I brightened. This was the old Delancey. The Delancey of the _Saturday Evening Post_ and the _Strand_, of the taffetas curtains and the cottage in Devonshire. By my sudden glow of gladness I realised how much I had missed him. But I couldn't say, "Dear, _dear_ Delancey, please be your old self and never, never, whatever you do, write another 'good' book," so I confessed that a question mark _would_ look very nice, but that I still thought that "Whither" sounded rather like a religious tract. "Well, we must think it over," he said. A week later, he announced to me in a tone which indicated clearly that my opinion was only wanted if it was approval, "I have decided to call my book 'Transition.'" "I always like single word titles," I said. "No one will read it," he said. "One bares one's soul to the public and they throw stones at it. But at any rate, now I can hold my head high." I didn't laugh, but it was the effort of a lifetime. Dear Delancey was so very absurd as a self-made martyr. It was somehow impossible for him to give an impression of having been persecuted for righteousness' sake. His shiny, rosy face had never looked rounder, his trousers had never been more perfect or his shoes more polished. And there were still the same little outbursts of childish prosperity, his watch, his tie-pin, his links were all redolent of a vitality that had ever been just the least little bit blatant. "Delancey," I said, "I want you to have just the sort of success you want for yourself."