"Now I thought he was at least fifty," said the Rector.
"Father, we shall have to go away if you won't be serious. Mother told us to explain to you and I think it's really unkind of you to laugh at us."
The Rector rose and knocked his pipe out.
"I must finish off the perennials. Well, well, Pauline, my dear, you're twenty-one...."
Pauline would have liked to let him go on thinking she was of age, but she could not on this solemn occasion, and so she told him that she was still only twenty.
"Ah, that makes a difference," said the Rector pretending to look very fierce. And when Pauline's face fell, he added with a chuckle, "of one year. Well, well, I fancy you've both arranged everything. What is there left for me to say? You mustn't forget to show Guy those Nerines. God bless you, pretty babies, be happy."
Then the Rector walked quickly away, and left them together in his dusty library where the botanical folios and quartos displaying tropic blooms sprawled open about the floor, where along the mantelpiece the rhizomes of Oncocyclus irises were being dried; and where seeds were strewn plenteously on his desk, rattling among the papers whenever the wind blew.
"Guy, we are really engaged."
"Pauline, Pauline!"
In the dusty room among the ghosts of dead seasons and the mouldering store amassed by the suns of other years, they stood locked, heart to heart.