"You must thank Constance ... you must thank my wife, if you thank anybody. But if I were you I shouldn't thank anybody till you find out for certain that she's done you a service," he recommended with a twinkle.
Guy laughed.
"Worrall doesn't want to publish until the Autumn."
The Rector made a face.
"All that time to wait for the verdict?"
"Time seems particularly hostile to me," Guy said.
"You'll have to tweak his forelock pretty hard."
"That's what I've come to consult you about. Do you think I ought to go to Persia with Sir George Gascony? Mrs. Grey thought I oughtn't to take so drastic a step until I had first tested my poems in public. But I've been reading them through, and they don't somehow look quite as important in print as they did in manuscript. I can't help feeling that I ought to have a regular occupation. What do you really advise me to do, Mr. Grey?"
The Rector held up his arms in mock dismay.
"Gracious goodness me, don't implicate a poor country parson in such affairs! I can give you advice about flowers and I can pretend to give you advice about your soul, but about the world, no, no."