The Rector was rather at a loss. "Well," he said, reluctantly, "I don't know about what you'd probably call _interesting_ people. Sir Ambrose McKee, the big Scotch distiller--Ambrosia whiskey, you know--has the shooting and comes down to the Manor House in September. Oh, and Gilbert Lothian, the poet, has a cottage in the place. I've met him twice, but I can't say that I know much about him. Medley swears by his wife, though. She does everything in the village I'm told. She was a Fielding, the younger branch." The doctor's face became strangely interested. It was alert and watchful in a moment. "Gilbert Lothian! He lives there does he! Now you tempt me. I've heard a good deal about Gilbert Lothian." The Rector was genuinely surprised. "Well, most people have," he answered. "But I should hardly have thought that a modern poet was much in your line." Morton Sims smiled, rather oddly. "Perhaps not," he said, "but I'm interested all the same. I have my own reasons. Put me into communication with the house agents, will you, O'Donnell?" The affair had been quickly arranged. The house proved satisfactory, and Dr. Morton Sims had taken it. On the morning when Mary Lothian had heard from Gilbert that he was returning that evening, Mr. Medley, reminded of his duty by a postcard from the Rector at Cowes, set out to pay a call and offer his services to the distinguished newcomer. The "Haven" was a pleasant gabled house standing in grounds of about three acres, not far from the Church and Rectory. The late Admiral Custance had kept it in beautiful order. The green, pneumatic lawns suggested those of a college quadrangle, the privet hedges were clipped with care, the whole place was taut and trim. Mr. Medley found Dr. Morton Sims smoking a morning pipe in the library, dressed in a suit of grey flannel and with a holiday air about him. The two men liked each other at once. There was no doubt about that in the minds of either of them. There was a certain dryness and mellow humour in Mr. Medley--a ripe flavour about him, as of an old English fruit crushed upon the palate. "Here is a rare bird," the doctor thought. And Morton Sims interested the clerygman no less. The doctor's great achievements and the fact that he was a definite feature in English life were quite familiar. When, on fugitive occasions any one of this sort strayed into the placid domains of his interest Medley was capable of welcoming him with eagerness. He did so now, and warmed himself in the steady glow from the celebrated man with whom he was sitting. That they were both Oxford men, more or less of the same period, was an additional link between them.