Chance favoured Guy next day by throwing him into the arms of the Rector, who asked if he were fond enough of flowers to look round the garden at a dull season of the year. Guy was so much elated that, if love of flowers meant more frequent opportunities of going to the Rectory, he would have given up poetry to become a professional gardener. Of course there was nothing to see, according to the Rector--a few Nerines of his own crossing in the greenhouse; a Buddleia Auriculata honeycomb-scented in the angle of two walls; the double Michaelmas daisy, an ugly brute already condemned to extermination; a white Red Hot Poker, evidently a favourite of the Rector's by the way he gazed upon it and said so casually Kniphofia Multiflora, as if it were not indeed a treasure blooming in Oxfordshire's dreary Autumn. "Tulips to go in next week," said the Rector, rolling the prospect upon his tongue with meditative enjoyment. "A friend of mine has just sent me some nice fellows from Bokhara and Turkestan. I ought to get them in this week, but Birdwood must finish with these roses. And I've got a lot of Clusiana too that ought to be in. I am going to try her in competition with shrubbery roots and see if _they'll_ make her behave herself." "Could I come in and help?" offered Guy. "Well, now that would certainly be most kind," said the Rector; and his thin handsome face lit up with the excitement of infecting Guy with his own passion. "But aren't you busy?" "Oh, no. I usually work at night." So Guy came to plant tulips and from planting tulips to being asked to lunch was not far, and from finishing off a few left over to being asked to tea was not far either. Moreover when the tulips were all planted, there were gladioli to be sorted and put away. Incidentally too the punt had to be caulked and the boathouse had to be strengthened, so that in the end it was half way into November before Guy realized he had been coming to the Rectory almost every day. The more he came, however, the more he was fascinated by the family. They still eluded him, and he was always aware, particularly between Margaret and Pauline, of a life in which as yet he hardly shared. At the same time, so familiar now were the inner places of the house and most of all the nursery, he felt as if happily there would come a day when to none of the sisters would he seem more noticeable than one of their tumbledown armchairs.