"I think perhaps I'll get some journalistic work in town," Guy suggested.
"Persia or journalism!" commented the Rector. "Well, well, they're both famous for fairy tales. I recommend journalism as being nearer at hand."
"Then I'll take your advice."
"Oh, dear me, you must not involve me in such a responsibility. Now, if you were a nice rational iris I would talk to you, but for a talented young man with his life before him I shouldn't even be a good quack. Come along, let's go out and look at the tulips."
"You will glance through my poems?" Guy asked diffidently.
The Rector stood up and put his hand on the poet's shoulder.
"Of course I will, my dear boy, and you mustn't be deceived by the manner of that shy old boor, the Rector of Wychford. Do what you think you ought to do, and make my youngest daughter happy. We shall be having her birthday before we know where we are."
"It's to-morrow!"
"Is it indeed? May Day. Of course. I remember last year I managed to bloom Iris Lorteti. But this year, no! That wet May destroyed Iris Lorteti. A delicate creature. Rose and brown. A delicate lovely creature."
Guy and the Rector pored over the tulips a while where in serried borders they displayed their sombre sheen of amaranth and amethyst: then Guy strolled off to hear what was the news of Margaret and Richard. Pauline came flying to meet him down one of the long straight garden-paths.