"And what can I do for you, sir?" he asked.
"I thought you'd like to see the proofs of my poems," said Guy.
He laid the duplicates on the dusty table, and tried to thank his patron for what he had done. The Rector waved a clay pipe deprecatingly.
"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."