``How do you mean, no good to me?'' he asked, with more
than a trace of uneasiness in his voice.
``Won't rhyme with Florrie,'' explained Clovis briefly.
Septimus sat upright in his chair, with unmistakable alarm
on his face.
``How did you find out? I mean how did you know I was
trying to get a rhyme to Florrie?'' he asked sharply.
``I didn't know,'' said Clovis, ``I only guessed. When
you wanted to turn the prosaic lorry of commerce into a
feathered poem flitting through the verdure of a tropical
forest, I knew you must be working up a sonnet, and Florrie
was the only female name that suggested itself as rhyming
with lorry.''
Septimus still looked uneasy.
``I believe you know more,'' be said.
Clovis laughed quietly, but said nothing.
``How much do you know?'' Septimus asked desperately.
``The yew tree in the garden,'' said Clovis.
``There! I felt certain I'd dropped it somewhere. But you
must have guessed something before. Look here, you have
surprised my secret. You won't give me away, will you? It
is nothing to be ashamed of, but it wouldn't do for the
editor of the _Cathedral Monthly_ to go in openly for that
sort of thing, would it?''
``Well, I suppose not,'' admitted Clovis.
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