And then he began flatteringly to smell one of the dahlias. He seemed to be attributing to the flower as much importance as he would have attributed to a baby; it was easier to deal with a dahlia, because the dahlia did not dribble, although had it really been a baby, its mother would have been much more annoyed at its being smelt like this than was the man in shirt sleeves, who laughed and said: "I wouldn't bother about the smell if I was you. Dahlia's don't have any smell. Size is what a dahlia's for." "No, I was thinking it was a rose," the young man explained apologetically. The incident which had begun so rudely was ended, and except for the unseen child practising its little hymn, was ended harmoniously. The young man was taken through the house and conducted along the street as far as the next ingress to the walls. When he met Jasmine coming towards him, he felt as if he had known her for a long time, and that they were meeting like this by appointment. "Well, that's finished," said the young man, after Jasmine had put the letters safely back in her bag. He eyed for a moment her black clothes. "I suppose you're going to Sunday-school and all that?" he ventured. "No, I'm just walking round the walls." "Curious coincidence! So was I." "Waiting for a train," she went on. "Still more curious! So am I." "Waiting for the 4.42." "The final touch!" he cried. "So am I. Let's wait in unison." They moved across to a circular bench set in an embrasure of the walls, overgrown here with ivy from which the sun drew forth a faint dusty scent. On this bench they sat down to exchange more coincidences. To begin with, they discovered that they were both going to Spaborough; soon afterward that they were both going to stay with uncles; and, as if this were not enough, that both these uncles were baronets, which even with the abnormal increase of baronets lately was, as the young man said, the most remarkable coincidence of all. "And what's your name?" Jasmine asked. "Harry." She felt like somebody who had been offered as a present an object in which nothing but politeness had led her to express an interest. "I meant your other name," she said quickly, rejecting as it were the offer of the more intimate first name. "Vibart. My uncle is Sir John Vibart." "Of course, how stupid of me," Jasmine murmured with a blush. "My name's Grant, of course," she hastened to add. "Sir Hector Grant," the young man went on musingly. "Isn't he some kind of a doctor?" "A nerve specialist," said Jasmine. "I know," said the young man in accents that combined wisdom with sympathy. The discovery of the baronets had removed the last trace of awkwardness which, easy though his manners were, was more perceptible in Mr. Vibart than in Jasmine, who in Sirene had never had much impressed upon her the sacred character of the introduction. "I shall come and call on you at Spaborough," he vowed.