"Oh, dear me, you must not involve me in such a responsibility. Now, if you were a nice rational iris I would talk to you, but for a talented young man with his life before him I shouldn't even be a good quack. Come along, let's go out and look at the tulips." "You _will_ glance through my poems?" Guy asked diffidently. The Rector stood up and put his hand on the poet's shoulder. "Of course I will, my dear boy, and you mustn't be deceived by the manner of that shy old boor, the Rector of Wychford. Do what you think you ought to do, and make my youngest daughter happy. We shall be having her birthday before we know where we are." "It's to-morrow!" "Is it indeed? May Day. Of course. I remember last year I managed to bloom Iris Lorteti. But this year, no! That wet May destroyed Iris Lorteti. A delicate creature. Rose and brown. A delicate lovely creature." Guy and the Rector pored over the tulips a while where in serried borders they displayed their sombre sheen of amaranth and amethyst: then Guy strolled off to hear what was the news of Margaret and Richard. Pauline came flying to meet him down one of the long straight garden-paths. "Darling, they are to be married early in August," she cried. He caught her to him and kissed her, lest in the first poignant realization of other people's joy she might seem to be escaping from him utterly. Guy had a few minutes with Margaret before he went home that evening, and they walked beside the tulip borders, she tall and dark and self-contained in the fading light being strangely suited by association with such flowers. "Dear Margaret," he said, "I want to tell you how tremendously I like Richard. Now that sounds patronizing. But I'm speaking quite humbly. These sort of Englishmen have been celebrated enough perhaps, and lately there's been a tendency to laugh at them, but, my God, what is there on earth like the Richards of England? Margaret, you once very rightly reproved me for putting Pauline in a silver frame, do let me risk your anger and beg you never to put yourself in a silver frame from which to look out at Richard." "You do rather understand me, don't you?" she said offering him her hand. "Help Pauline and me," he begged. "Haven't I always helped you?" "Not always, but you will now that you yourself are no longer uncertain about your future. The moment you find yourself perfectly happy you'll be longing for everyone else to be the same." "But how haven't I helped you?" she persisted. "It would be difficult to explain in definite words. But I don't think my idea of your attitude toward us could have been entirely invented by my fancy." "What attitude? What do you mean, Guy?" He shook his head. "My dear, if you aren't conscious of it, I'm certainly not going to attempt to put it into words and involve myself in such a net." "How tantalizing you are!"