Towards noon, when she came downstairs, she met Jaffery on the terrace, with a familiar little knitting of the brow before which his welcoming smile faded.
"It's all right up to a point," she said, handing him back the letter.
"Nobody with the rudiments of a brain could fail to recognise the merits of Adrian's work.

But no novelist is possessed of the critical faculty." "Then why," asked Jaffery, after the way of men, "did you ask me to send him the novel ?" "I took it for granted he had common sense," replied Doria, after the way of women.
"And he hasn't any ?" "Read the thing again." Jaffery scanned the page mechanically and looked up: "Well, what's to be done now ?" "I should like to compare the proofs with Adrian's original manuscript.
Where is it ?" Here was the question we had all dreaded.

Jaffery lied convincingly.
"It went to the printers, my dear, and of course they've destroyed it." "I thought everything was typed nowadays." "Typing takes time," replied Jaffery serenely.

"And I'm not an advocate of feather-beds and rose-water baths for printers.

As I wanted to rush the book out as quickly as possible, I didn't see why I should pamper them with type.