Tom was dead: I flourished, a comfortable cumberer of the earth; Jaffery was doing something idiotically desperate somewhere or the other--he was a war-correspondent by trade (as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot-cross buns), and a desperado by predilection--I had not heard from him for a year; and now Adrian--if indeed the Adrian Boldero of the review was he--had written an epoch-making novel.
But Adrian--the precious, finnikin Adrian--how on earth could he have written this same epoch-making novel?
Beyond doubt he was a clever fellow.

He had obtained a First Class in the Law Tripos and had done well in his Bar examination.

But after fourteen years or so he was making twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession.

He made another three-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines.

He dined out a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being a very popular and agreeable person.