"Oh, I was like that myself once. I can remember the time when I was as fond of a good dahlia as anything. Now I goes sniffing the ground to see if there's any Mentha Requieni left over from the frost." "Sniffing the ground?" "That's right. It's so small that if it wasn't for the smell anyone wouldn't see it. That's _worth_ growing that is. Only, if you'll understand me, it takes anyone who's used to looking at peonies and suchlike a few years to find out the object of a plant that isn't any bigger than a pimple on an elephant." Guy was reluctant to let Birdwood go without bringing him to talk more directly of the family and less of the flowers. At the same time he felt it would be wiser not to rouse in the gardener any suspicion of how much he was interested in the Rectory: he was inclined to think he might resent it, and he wanted him as a friend. "Who is working in your garden?" asked Birdwood, as he turned to go. "Well, nobody just at present," said Guy apologetically. "All right," Birdwood announced. "I'll get hold of someone for you in less than half a pig's whisper." "But not all the time," Guy explained quickly. He was worried by the prospect of a gardener's wages coming out of his small income. "Once a week he'll come in," said Birdwood. Guy nodded. "What's his name?" "Graves he's called, but being deaf and dumb, his name's not of much account." "Deaf and dumb?" repeated Guy. "But how shall I explain what I want done?" "I'll show you," said Birdwood. "I'll come round and put you in the way of managing him. Work? I reckon that boy would work any other mortal in Wychford to the bone. Work? Well, he can't hear nothing, and he can't say nothing, so what else can he do? And he does it. Good afternoon, Mr. Hazlenut." And Birdwood retired, whistling very shrilly as he went down the path to the gate. Two nights later, Guy with lighted lantern in his hand set out to the Rectory. He did not venture to go by the orchard and the fields and so, crossing the narrow bridge over the stream, enter by way of the garden. Such an approach seemed too familiar for the present stage of his friendship, and he took the more formal route through an alley of mediaeval cottages that branched off Wychford High Street. Mysterious lattices blinked at him, and presently he felt the wind coming fresh in his face as he skirted the churchyard. The road continued past the back of a long row of almshouses, and when he saw the pillared gate of the Rectory drive, over which high trees were moaning darkly, Guy wondered if he were going to a large dinner-party. No word had been said of any one else's coming, but with Mrs. Grey's vagueness that portended nothing. He hoped that he would be the only guest and, swinging his lantern with a pleased expectancy, he passed down the drive. Suddenly a figure materialized from the illumination he was casting and hailed him with a questioning 'hulloa'? "Hulloa," Guy responded.