“Strangers don’t ask,” growled Jaffery.

“It would make life much more pleasant if they did,” said Barbara, smiling.  “Mrs. Prescott, this bear of a guardian or trustee or whatever he is of yours, makes a terrible noise—­but he’s quite harmless.”

“I know that,” said Liosha.

“He does what I tell him,” the little lady continued, drawing herself up majestically beside Jaffery’s great bulk.  “He’s going to stay here, and so will you, if you will so far honour us.”

Liosha rose and bowed.  “The honour is mine.”

“Then will you come this way—­I will shew you your room.”

She motioned to Liosha to precede her through the French window of the drawing-room.  Before disappearing Liosha bowed again.  I caught up Barbara.

“My dear, what about clothes and things?”

“My dear,” she said, “there’s a telephone, there’s a taxi, there’s a maid, there’s the Savoy hotel, and there’s a train to bring back maid and clothes.”

When Barbara takes command like this, the wise man effaces himself.  She would run an Empire with far less fuss than most people devote to the running of a small sweet-stuff shop.  I smiled and returned to the others.  Jaffery was again filling his huge pipe.

“I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he said gloomily.

Adrian burst out laughing “But she’s immense, your widow!  The most refreshing thing I’ve seen for many a day.  The way she clears the place of the cobwebs of convention!  She’s great.  Isn’t she, Doria?”

“I can quite understand Mr. Chayne finding her an uncomfortable charge.”

“Thank you,” said Jaffery, with rather unnecessary vehemence.  “I knew you would be sympathetic.”  He dropped into a chair by her side.  “You can’t tell what an awful thing it is to be responsible for another human being.”

“Heaps of people manage to get through with it—­every husband and wife—­every mother and father.”

“Yes; but not many poor chaps who are neither father nor husband are responsible for another fellow’s grown-up widow.”

Doria smiled.  “You must find her another husband.”

“That’s a great idea.  Will you help me?  Before I knew of Adrian’s great good fortune, I wrote to Hilary—­ho! ho! ho!  But we must find somebody else.”

“Has she any money?” asked Doria, who smiled but faintly at the jocular notion of a Liosha-bound Adrian.

“Prescott left her about a thousand a year.  He was pretty well off, for a war-correspondent.”

“I don’t think she’ll have much difficulty.  Do you know,” she added, after a moment or two of reflection, “if I were you, I would establish her in a really first-class boarding-house.”

“Would that be a good way?” Jaffery asked simply.

She nodded.  “The best.  She seems to have fallen foul of your sister.”

“The dearest old soul that ever lived,” said Jaffery.

“That’s why.  I’m sure I know your sister perfectly.  The daughter of an Albanian patriot who used to kill pigs in Chicago—­why, what can your poor sister do with her?  Your sister is much older than you, isn’t she?”