‘He was clever enough to come out first in any Tripos he had read for. But his friends would not let him read. He was sought after, popular,’ said Dinah, with a sigh, ‘just as you see him now. However, that made no difference for Geff. Gaston treated him like a younger brother always. He does so now. I have grown myself to think of Geoffrey as of a brother.’ She stopped short, for Gaston Arbuthnot and Lord Rex Basire were now within hearing distance; Doctor Thorne, adhesive as goose-grass, addressing them by turns as he followed, with his nimble limp, in their steps. ‘Yes, Mr. Arbuthnot, you must grant me my postulate.’ Doctor Thorne packed up all of nature or of books--chiefly of books--that came within his reach in little, neatly-labelled comprehensible forms, dilettante demonstrations of the universe ready for his own daily use and the misery of his fellows. ‘Grant, as a postulate, that the magnitudes we call molecules are realities, and the rest follows as a necessary deduction. Let us look around us at this moment. Evolution teaches us that these bright blooms we behold actually come into being through the colour-sense of insects; and, and----Lord Rex Basire! you, I am sure, are fascinated by the subject!’ Lord Rex had not heard a syllable. Breaking away from Doctor Thorne, Lord Rex stood still, his eyes pointedly avoiding Dinah’s face. Gaston, meanwhile, his hat held low, after the fashion of Broadway or the Boulevards, was saluting the two ladies, making Marjorie Bartrand’s acquaintance, and jesting amicably with Dinah as to the march she had stolen upon himself and an unexpectant Sarnian world. When two or three minutes had passed Lord Rex gave evidence of his presence. Coming forward, he delivered a set little compliment to Marjorie Bartrand on the Seigneur’s roses. It was a source of agreeable satisfaction to Lord Rex Basire that the ‘Duc de Rohan’ should have taken a first prize. He would like---- ‘The Seigneur’s dark roses have taken a prize every June show for the last quarter of a century,’ Marjorie interrupted him cruelly. ‘When once we islanders, flower-show judges included, get into a safe groove, we keep there.’ ‘What an improving place Guernsey must be to live in!’ Gaston Arbuthnot remarked. ‘I have been trying vainly through the best years of my life to keep in safe grooves.’ ‘To _keep_ in safe grooves!’ repeated Marjorie, with rather stinging emphasis. ‘You would need to get into them first, would you not?’ ‘You are severe, Miss Bartrand.’ Gaston came over to the girl’s side. ‘And I like it. Severity gives me a new sensation. Now, I am going to ask a favour which I can tell beforehand you will grant. I want you to show me these conquering Tintajeux roses. Tintajeux is not an unknown name to us.’ Gaston added this last clause in a lower key, then watched to note how much the colour would vary on her ever-varying face.