Breakfast was to be in the garden, as all Rectory birthdays were except Monica's which fell in January; and since the day had ripened to a kind of sweet sultriness as of a pear that has hung too long upon a wall, it was grateful to sit in the shade of the weeping-willow by the side of the lily-pond. To each floating cup, tawny or damasked white or deepest cramoisy, the Rector called their attention. Nymphaeas they were to him, fountain divinities that one after the other he flattered with courteous praise. When Guy had been given all his presents, Pauline saw her father put a hand in his coat and pull out a small book.
"Father has remembered Guy's birthday," she cried clapping her hands. "Now I do call that wonderful. Francis, you're wonderful. You're really wonderful."
"Pauline, Pauline, don't get too excited," her mother begged. "And please don't call your father Francis in the garden."
"Propertius," Guy murmured, shyly opening the book; but when he was going to say something about that Roman lover to the Rector, the Rector had vanished.
After breakfast Pauline and Guy walked in the inner wall-garden that was now brilliant with ten thousand deep-throated gladioli.
"Pauline," said Guy, "this morning I learnt Milton's sonnet on his twenty-third birthday, and I feel rather worried. Listen,
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late Spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Well, now, if Milton felt like that," he sighed, "what about me? Pauline, tell me again that you believe in me."
"Of course I believe in you," she vowed.
"And I am right to stay here?" he asked eagerly.