I wheeled round politely in my chair.
"Then, what is it ?" I asked.
"Have you read the paper this morning ?" "I've glanced through the _Times_," said I.
She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a bed-spread or two--( "Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_," said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shed Vallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until she had discovered the page for which she was searching.

Then she held a mangled sheet before my eyes.
"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that ?" "What do I think of what ?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.
"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!" "Adrian ?" said I."Well, my dear, what of it?
Poor old Adrian is capable of anything.

Nothing he did would ever surprise me.

He might write a sonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tin cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful, charming, futile Adrian." Barbara pished and insisted.

"But this is apparently a wonderful novel.
There's a whole column about it.