ormal gift, but it would have to be offered when they
were alone, and it must be worn nowhere but in the secret country they
haunted with their love. The ring, uncostly as it was, took nearly all
Guy's spare money, and he decided to buy a book for her, because in
Oxford bookshops he still had accounts running. The April afternoon wore
away while in his own particular bookshop kept by Mr. Brough, an ancient
man with a white beard, he took down from the shelves volume after
volume. At last he found a small copy of Blake's Lyrics bound in faded
apple-green calf and tooled in a golden design of birds, berries, and
daisies. This must be for Pauline, he decided, since some one must have
known the pattern of that nursery wall-paper and, loving it, have wished
it to be recorded more endurably. What more exquisite coincidence could
assure him that this book was meant for Pauline? Yet he was half jealous
of the unknown designer who had thought of something of which himself
might have thought. Oh yes, this must be for Pauline; and as Guy rescued
it from the dust and darkness of the old shop he ascribed to the green
volume an emotion of relief, and was half aware of promising to it a new
and dearer owner who with cherishing would atone for whatever misfortune
had brought it to these gloomy shelves.

Next morning, when Guy was ready to start, Michael presented him with a
glazier's diamond pencil.

"When you fall in love, Guy, this will serve to scribble sonnets to your
lady on the lattices of Plashers Mead. I shall probably come there
myself when term's over."

"I wish you'd come and live there with me," said Guy in a last effort to
persuade Michael. "You see, if you shared the house it wouldn't cost so
much."

"Perhaps I will," said Michael. "Who knows? I wonder what your Rectory
people would think of me?"

"Oh, Pauline would like you. Pauline's the youngest, you know," added
Guy. "And I'm pretty certain you'd like Monica."

Michael laughed.

"Really, Guy, I must tell them in Balliol that since you went down
you've become an idle matchmaker. Good-by."

"Good-by. You're sure you won't mind the fag of forwarding my bicycle?
I'll send you a post-card from Oldbridge."

Guy, although there was still more than a week before he would see
Pauline, felt, as he hurried towards the boat-builder's moorings, that
he would see her within an hour, such airy freedom did the realization
of being on his way give to his limbs.

The journ