"You mean there's the difficulty of money? By Jove, that's bad luck, isn't it? Still, you know, I expect that having the good fortune to have Pauline in love with you ... well, I expect, you've got to expect a bit of difficulty somewhere, you know. You know, Pauline was...." he stopped and blinked at the window. "Pauline's awfully fond of you," Guy said encouragingly. "Hazlewood, that kid's been ... well, I can't express myself, you know, but I'd ... well, I really can't talk about her." "I understand though," said Guy. "Look here, you'll stay and have lunch with me, and then we can go across to the Rectory afterwards." Emotional subjects were tacitly put on one side to talk of the birds and butterflies that one might expect to find round Wychford, of Miss Verney and Godbold and other local characters, or of the prospects of the cricket team that year. After lunch Guy put the unbound set of proofs in his pocket and, launching the canoe, they floated down to the Rectory paddock. Mrs. Grey and the girls were all in the garden picking purple tulips, and Guy taking Pauline aside told her on what momentous quest Richard was come, suggesting that he should occupy the Rector's attention, while Pauline lured away her mother and Monica. The Rector was sitting in the library hard at work, rubbing the fluff from the anemone seeds with sand. "And what can I do for you, Sir?" he asked. "I thought you'd like to see the proofs of my poems," said Guy. He laid the duplicates on the dusty table and tried to thank his patron for what he had done. The Rector waved a clay pipe deprecatingly. "You must thank Constance ... you must thank my wife, if you thank anybody. But if I were you I shouldn't thank anybody till you find out for certain that she's done you a service," he recommended with a twinkle. Guy laughed. "Worrall doesn't want to publish until the Autumn." The Rector made a face. "All that time to wait for the verdict?" "Time seems particularly hostile to me," Guy said. "You'll have to tweak his forelock pretty hard." "That's what I've come to consult you about. Do you think I ought to go to Persia with Sir George Gascony? Mrs. Grey thought I oughtn't to take so drastic a step until I had first tested my poems in public. But I've been reading them through, and they don't somehow look quite as important in print as they did in manuscript. I can't help feeling that I ought to have a regular occupation. What do you really advise me to do, Mr. Grey?" The Rector held up his arms in mock dismay. "Gracious goodness me, don't implicate a poor country parson in such affairs! I can give you advice about flowers and I can pretend to give you advice about your soul, but about the world, no, no." "I think perhaps I'll get some journalistic work in town," Guy suggested. "Persia or journalism!" commented the Rector. "Well, well, they're both famous for fairy tales. I recommend journalism as being nearer at hand." "Then I'll take your advice."