"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 awhile, where in serried borders they displayed their somber 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.
"Darling, they are to be married early in August," she cried.
He caught her to him and kissed her, lest in the first poignant realization of other people's joy she might seem to be escaping from him utterly.
Guy had a few minutes with Margaret before he went home that evening, and they walked beside the tulip borders, she tall and dark and self-contained in the fading light, being strangely suited by association with such flowers.
"Dear Margaret," he said, "I want to tell you how tremendously I like Richard. Now that sounds patronizing. But I'm speaking quite humbly. These sort of Englishmen have been celebrated enough, perhaps, and lately there's been a tendency to laugh at them, but, my God! what is there on earth like the Richards of England? Margaret, you once very rightly reproved me for putting Pauline in a silver frame, do let me risk your anger and beg you never to put yourself in a silver frame from which to look out at Richard."
"You do rather understand me, don't you?" she said, offering him her hand.
"Help Pauline and me," he begged.
"Haven't I always helped you?"