"Yes, yes," said Doria. "But they were not Adrian. Every artist must be a law to himself. Adrian's different. Why--those two that you've mentioned--they slung out stuff by the bucketful. It didn't matter to them what they wrote. But Adrian has to get the rhythm and the balance and the beauty of every sentence he writes--to say nothing of the subtlety of his analysis and the perfect drawing of his pictures. My dear, good people"--she threw out her hands in an impatient gesture--"you don't know what you're talking about. How can you? It's impossible for you to conceive--it's almost impossible even for me to conceive--the creative workings of the mind of a man of genius. Four hours a day! Your mechanical fiction-monger, yes. Four hours a day is stamped all over the slack drivel they publish. But you can't imagine that work like Adrian's is to be done in this dead mechanical way." "It is you that don't quite understand," I protested. "My admiration for Adrian's genius is second to none but yours. But I repeat that no human brain since the beginning of time has been capable of spinning cobwebs of fancy for twelve hours a day, day in and day out for months at a time. Look at your husband. He has tried it. Does he sleep well?" "No." "Has he a hearty appetite?" "No." "Is he a light-hearted, cheery sort of chap to have about the place?" "He's naturally tired, after his winter's work," said Doria. "He's played out," said I, "and if you are a wise woman, you'll take him away for a couple of months' rest, and when he gets back, see that he works at lower pressure." Doria promised to do her best; but she sighed. "You don't realise Adrian's iron will." Once more I recognised with a shock that I did not know my Adrian. I used to think one could blow the thistledown fellow about whithersoever one pleased. Of the two, Doria seemed to have unquestionably the stronger will-power. "Surely," said I, "you can twist him round your little finger." Doria sighed again--and a wanly indulgent smile played about her lips. "You two dear people are so sensible, that it makes me almost angry to see how you can't begin to understand Adrian. As a man, of course I have a certain influence over him. But as an artist--how can I? He's a thing apart from me altogether. I know perfectly well that thousands of artists' wives wreck their happiness through sheer, stupid jealousy of their husbands' art. I'm not such a narrow-minded, contemptible woman." She threw her little head up proudly. "I should loathe myself if I grudged one hour that Adrian gave to his work instead of to me." This time Barbara and I sighed, for we realised how vain had been our arguments. Our considerably greater knowledge of life, our stark common-sense, our deep affection for Adrian counted as naught beside the fact that we had no experience whatever in the rearing of a genius.