“I gave the old chap’s lechery a twist in my own direction. It’s still pretty awful, but it’s not just pure bawdiness any more. In fact, I’d like some people I know to read it. It’s ferocious. It’s like Swift.”

Over Christie’s expressive face, its whiteness blotched by faint red marks from the violent usage she had given it, flitted a tender, ironical smile.

“ You’re like Swift, Wolf,” she murmured, “coming into people’s rooms and poking among their things.”

“There, Chris! See what you think of it,” he cried, pushing the great parchment-bound book towards her.

But she only mechanically turned over its pages.

“It’s nearly a year since I began it, Chris. It’ll be a year ago next Friday, when I arrived⁠ ⁠… going by the date , that’s to say.”