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. He frowned, fidgeted with his feet. "I wish to God I hadn't to work at all," said he. "I hate it! I'd sooner be a coal-heaver." "Bosh!" said I. "I know that you're an essentially idle beggar; but you're as proud as Punch of your fame and success and all that it means to you." "What does it mean after all?" "If you talk in that pessimistic way," I said, "you'll make me cry. Don't. It means every blessed thing in the world to you. At any rate it has meant Doria." "I suppose that's true," he grunted. "And I suppose I am essentially idle. But I wish the damned thing would get written of its own accord. It's having to sit down at that infernal desk that gets on my nerves. I have the same horrible apprehension of it--always have--as one has before a visit to the dentist, when you know he's going to drill hell into you." "Why do you work in such a depressing room?" I asked. "If I were shut up alone in it, I would stick my nose in the air and howl like a dog." "Oh, the room's all right," said he. Then he looked away absently and murmured as if to himself, "It isn't the room." "Then what is it?" I persisted. He turned with a dreary sort of smile. "It's the born butterfly being condemned to do the work of the busy bee." A short while afterwards we saw them drive off and watched the car disappear round the bend of the drive. "Well, my dear," said I, "thank goodness I'm not a man of genius." "Amen!" said Barbara, fervently. As soon as they had settled down in their flat, Adrian began to work again, in the same unremitting fashion. The only concession he made to consideration of health was to go to bed immediately on his return from dinner-parties and theatres instead of spending three or four hours in his study. Otherwise the routine of toil went on as before. One afternoon, happening to be in town and in the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, I called at the flat with the idea of asking Doria for a cup of tea. I also had in my pocket a letter from Jaffery which I thought might interest Adrian. The maid who opened the door informed me that her mistress was out. Was Mr. Boldero in? Yes; but he was working. "That doesn't matter," said I. "Tell him I'm here."