Presently the familiar sound of the horn announced the return of Barbara.  We sprang to our feet and descended to meet the car at the front porch.  Jaffery, grinning with delight, opened the door, appeared to lift a radiant Barbara out of the car like a parcel and almost hugged her.  And there they stood holding on to each other’s hands and smiling into each other’s faces and saying how well they looked, regardless of the fact that they were blocking the way for Doria, who remained in the car, I had to move them on with the reminder that they had the whole week-end for their effusions.  Adrian helped Doria to alight, and to Doria then, for the first time, was presented Jaffery Chayne.  Jaffery blinked at her oddly as he held her little gloved fingers in his enormous hand.  And, indeed, I could excuse him; for she was a very striking object to come suddenly into the immediate range of a man’s vision, with her chiffon and her slenderness, and her black hat beneath which her great eyes shone from the startling, nervous, ivory-white face.

She smiled on him graciously.  “I’m so glad to meet you.”  Then after a fraction of a second came the explanation.  “I’ve heard so much of you.”

He murmured something into his beard.  Meeting his childlike gaze of admiration, she turned away and put her arm round Barbara’s waist.  The ladies went indoors to take off their things, accompanied by Adrian, who wanted a lover’s word with Doria on the way.  Jaffery followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared at the corner of the hall-stairs.  Then he took me by the arm and led me up towards the terrace.

“Who is that singularly beautiful girl?” he asked.

“Doria Jornicroft,” said I.

“She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I wouldn’t find her too astonishing, if I were you,” said I with a laugh, “because there might be complications.  She’s engaged to Adrian.”

He dropped my arm.  “Do you mean—­she’s going to marry him?”

“Next month,” said I.

“Well, I’m damned,” said Jaffery.  I asked him why.  He did not enlighten me.  “Isn’t he a lucky devil?” he asked, instead.  “The most pestilentially lucky devil under the sun.  But why the deuce didn’t you tell me before?”

“You expressed such a distaste for female women that we thought we would give you as long a respite as possible.”

“That’s all very well,” he grumbled.  “But if I had known that Adrian’s fiancee was knocking around I’d have lumped her in my heart with Barbara and Susie.”

“You’re not prevented from doing that now,” said I.

His brow cleared.  “True, sonny.”  He broke into a guffaw.  “Fancy old Adrian getting married!”

“I see nothing funny in it,” said I.  “Lots of people get married.  I’m married.”

“Oh, you—­you were born to be married,” he said crushingly.

“And so are you,” I retorted.

“I?  I tie myself to the stay-strings of a flip of a thing in petticoats, whom I should have to swear to love, honour and obey—?”