The great thing was, he said, that the book should be written by himself. And once fairly extricated from his own entanglements and set going on a clear path, with Barbara to pull him out of all the awkward places, Mr. Waddington rambled along through the Cotswolds at a smooth, easy pace. Barbara had contrived to break him of his wasteful and expensive habit of returning from everywhere to Wyck. All through August he kept a steady course northeast, north, northwest; by September he had turned due south; he would be beating up east again by October; November would find him in the valleys; there was no reason why he shouldn't finish in December and come out in March. Mr. Waddington himself was surprised at the progress he had made. "It shows," he said, "what we can do without Ralph Bevan." And Barbara, seated on Ralph's carrier, explored the countryside and mapped out Mr. Waddington's course for him. "She's worth a dozen Ralph Bevins," he would say. And he would go to the door with her and see her start. "You mustn't let yourself be victimized by Ralph," he said. He glanced at the carrier. "Do you think it's safe?" "Quite safe. If it isn't it'll only be a bit more thrilling." "Much better to come in the car with me." But Barbara wouldn't go in the car with him. When he talked about it she looked frightened and embarrassed. Her fright and her embarrassment were delicious to Mr. Waddington. He said to himself: "She doesn't think _that's_ safe, anyhow." And as he watched her rushing away, swaying exquisitely over a series of terrific explosions, he gave a little skip and a half turn, light and youthful, in the porch of his Manor. IX 1 Sir John Corbett had called in the morning. He had exerted himself to that extent out of friendship, pure friendship for Waddington, and he had chosen an early hour for his visit to mark it as a serious and extraordinary occasion. He sat now in the brown leather armchair which was twin to the one Mr. Waddington had sat in when he had his portrait painted. His jolly, rosy face was subdued to something serious and extraordinary. He had come to warn Mr. Waddington that scandal was beginning to attach itself to his acquaintance--he was going to say "relations," but remembered just in time that "relations" was a question-begging word--to his acquaintance with a certain lady. To which Mr. Waddington replied, haughtily, that he had a perfect right to choose his--er--acquaintance. His acquaintance was, pre-eminently, his own affair. "Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so. But, strictly between ourselves, is it a good thing to choose acquaintances of the sort that give rise to scandal? As a man of the world, now, between ourselves, doesn't it strike you that the lady in question may be that sort?" "It does not strike me," said Mr. Waddington, "and I see no reason why it should strike you." "I don't like the look of her," said Sir John, quoting Major Markham.