those who saw lynette’s swoop towards her heroine attached no esoteric meaning to its publicity. a sage green frock and a bronze gold head went darting between the figures on the fernhill lawn.

mrs. brocklebank, who could stop most people in full career, as a policeman halts the traffic in the city, discovered that it was possible for her largeness to be ignored.

“lynette, my dear, come and show me——”

lynette whisked past her unheedingly. mrs. brocklebank tilted her glasses.

“dear me, how much too impetuous that child is. i am always telling gertrude that she is far too wild and emotional.”

mrs. lankhurst, who was mrs. brocklebank’s companion for the moment, threw back an echo.

“a little neurotic, i think.”

mrs. lankhurst was a typical hard-faced, raddled, cut-mouthed englishwoman, a woman who had ceased to trouble about her appearance simply because she had been married for fifteen years and felt herself comfortably and sexually secure. an unimaginative self-complacency seems to be the chief characteristic of this type of englishwoman. she appears to regard marriage as a release from all attempts at subtilising the charm of dress, lets her complexion go, her figure slacken, her lips grow thin. “george” is serenely and lethargically constant, so why trouble about hats? so the good woman turns to leather, rides, gardens, plays golf, and perhaps reads questionable novels. the sex problem does not exist for her, yet mrs. lankhurst’s “george” was notorious and mutable behind her back. she thought him cased up in domestic buckram, and never the lover of some delightful little dame aux camellias, who kept her neck white, and her sense of humour unimpaired.

lynette’s white legs flashed across the grass.

“oh, miss eve!”

eve carfax had stepped out through the open drawing-room window, a slim and sensitive figure that carried itself rather proudly in the face of a crowd.

“lynette!”

“i knew you’d come! i knew you’d come!”

she held out hands that had to be taken and held, despite the formal crowd on the lawn.

“i’m so glad you’re back.”

a red mouth waited to be kissed.

“we have missed you—daddy and i.”

“my dear——”

mrs. brocklebank was interested. so was her companion.

“who is that girl?”

mrs. lankhurst had a way of screwing up her eyes, and wrinkling her forehead.

“a miss carfax. she lives with her mother near here. retired tradespeople, i imagine. the girl paints. she is doing work for mr. canterton—illustrating catalogues, i suppose.”

“the child seems very fond of her.”

“children have a habit of making extraordinary friendships. it is the dustman, or an engine-driver, or something equally primitive.”

“i suppose one would call the girl pretty?”

“too french!”

mrs. lankhurst nodded emphatically.

“englishmen are so safe. now, in any other country it would be impossible——”

“oh, quite! i imagine such a man as james canterton——”

“the very idea is indecent. our men are so reliable. one never bothers one’s head. yet one has only to cross the channel——”

“a decadent country. the women make the morals of the men. any nation that thinks so much about dress uncovers its own nakedness.”

the multi-coloured crowd had spread itself over the whole of the broad lawn in the front of the house, for gertrude canterton’s garden parties were very complete affairs, claiming people from half the county. she had one of the best string bands that was to be obtained, ranged in the shade of the big sequoia. the great cedar was a kind of kiosk, and a fashionable london caterer had charge of the tea.

lynette kept hold of eve’s hand.

“where is your mother, dear?”

“do you want to see mother?”

“of course.”

they wound in and out in quest of gertrude canterton, and found her at last in the very centre of the crowd, smiling and wriggling in the stimulating presence of a rear-admiral. she was wearing a yellow dress and a purple hat, a preposterous and pathetic combination of colours when the man she had married happened to be one of the greatest flower colourists in the kingdom. eve shook hands and was smiled at.

“how do you do, miss garvice?”

“it isn’t garvice, mother.”

eve was discreet and passed on, but lynette was called back.

“lynette, come and say how do you do to admiral mirlees.”

lynette stretched out a formal hand.

“how do you do, admiral mirlees?”

the sailor gave her a big hand, and a sweep of the hat.

“how do you do, miss canterton? charmed to meet you! supposing you come and show me the garden?”

lynette eyed him gravely.

“most of it’s locked up.”

“locked up?”

“because people steal daddy’s things.”

“lynette!”

“i’m very busy, admiral, but i can give you ten minutes.”

the sailor’s eyes twinkled, but gertrude canterton was angry.

“lynette, go and show admiral mirlees all the garden.”

“my dear mrs. canterton, i am quite sure that your daughter is telling the truth. she must be in great demand, and i shall be grateful for ten minutes.”

lynette’s eyes began to brighten to the big playful child in him.

“lord admiral, i think you must look so nice in a cocked hat. i’ve left miss eve, you see. she’s been away, and she’s my great friend.”

“i won’t stand in miss eve’s way.”

“but she’s not a bit selfish, and i think i might spare half an hour.”

“miss canterton, let me assure you that i most deeply appreciate this compliment.”

eve, left alone, wandered here and there, knowing hardly a soul, and feeling rather lost and superfluous. happiness in such shows consists in being comfortably inconspicuous, a talker among talkers, though there are some who can hold aloof with an air of casual detachment, and outstare the crowd from some pillar of isolation. eve had a self-conscious fit upon her. gertrude canterton’s parties were huge and crowded failures. the subtle atmosphere that pervades such social assemblies was restless, critical, uneasy, at fernhill. people talked more foolishly than usual, and were either more absurdly stiff or more absurdly genial than was their wont.

the string band had begun to play one of brahms’ hungarian melodies. it was a superb band, and the music had an impetuous and barbaric sensuousness, a bacchic rush of half-naked bodies whirling together through a shower of vine leaves and flowers. the talk on the lawn seemed so much gabble, and eve wandered out, and round behind the great sequoia where she could listen to the music and be at peace. she wondered what the violinists thought of the crowd over yonder, these men who could make the strings utter wild, desirous cries. what a stiff, preposterous, and complacent crowd it seemed. incongruous fancies piqued her sense of humour. if pan could come leaping out of the woods, if ironical satyrs could seize and catch up those twentieth century women, and wild-eyed girls pluck the stiff men by the chins. the music suggested it, but who had come to listen to the music?

“i have been hunting you through the crowd.”

she turned sharply, with all the self-knowledge that she had won at latimer rushing to the surface. a few words spoken in the midst of the crying of the violins. she felt the surprised nakedness of her emotions, that she was stripped for judgment, and that sanity would be whipped into her by the scourge of a strong man’s common sense.

“i have not been here very long.”

she met his eyes and held her breath.

“i saw you with lynette, but i could not make much headway.”

canterton had taken her hand and held it a moment, but his eyes never left her face. she was mute, full of a wonder that was half exultant, half afraid. all those subtle fancies that had haunted her at latimer were becoming realities, instead of melting away into the reasonable sunlight. what had happened to both of them in a week? he was the same big, brown, quiet man of the world, magnanimous, reliable, a little reticent and proud, yet from the moment that he had spoken and she had turned to meet his eyes she had known that he had changed.

“i promised lynette that i would come.”

“aren’t you tired?”

“tired? no. i left latimer early, and after all, it is only seventy miles. i got home about twelve and found mother knitting just as though she had been knitting ever since i left her. lynette looks lovely.”

she felt the wild necessity of chattering, of covering things up with sound, of giving her thoughts time to steady themselves. his eyes overwhelmed her. it was not that they were too audacious or too intimate. on the contrary they looked at her with a new softness, a new awe, a kind of vigilant tenderness that missed nothing.

“i think you are looking very well.”

“i am very well.”

she caught quick flitting glances going over her, noticing her simple little black hat shaped like an almond, her virginal white dress and long black gloves. the black and white pleased him. her feminine instinct told her that.

“i came round here to listen to the music.”

“music is expected at these shows, and not listened to. i always call this ‘padlock day.’”

she laughed, glad of a chance to let emotions relax for a moment.

“padlock day! do you mean——”

“there are too many mrs. brocklebanks about.”

“but surely——”

“you would be surprised if i were to tell you how some of my choice things used to be pilfered on these party days. now i shut up my business premises on these state occasions, for fear the mrs. brocklebanks should bring trowels in their sunshades.”

“and instead, you give them good music?”

“which they don’t listen to, and they could not appreciate it if they did.”

“you are severe!”

“am i? supposing these men gave us the second hungarian rhapsody, how could you expect the people to understand it? in fact, it is not a thing to be understood, but to be felt. our good friends would be shocked if they felt as liszt probably meant people to feel it. blood and wine and garlands and fire in the eyes. well, how did you like latimer?”

the blood rose again to her face, and she knew that the same light was in his eyes.

“perfect. i was tempted to dream all my time away instead of painting. i hope you will like the pictures. there was something in the atmosphere of the place that bothered me.”

“oh?”

“yes, just as though ghosts were trying to play tricks with my hands. the gardens are classic, renaissance, or what you please. it should have been all sunny, delightful formalism, but then——”

“something gothic crept in.”

“how do you know that?”

“i have been to latimer.”

her eyes met his with a flash of understanding.

“of course. but i——well, you must judge.”

the music had stopped, and an eddy of the crowd came lapping round behind the sequoia. canterton was captured by an impetuous amateur gardener in petticoats who had written a book about something or other, and who always cast her net broadly at an interesting man.

“oh, mr. canterton, can you tell me about those chinese primulas?”

to eve carfax it appeared part of the whimsical and senseless spirit of such a gathering that she should be carried up against gertrude canterton, whose great joy was to exercise the power of patronage.

“miss carfax, mr. canterton seems so pleased with your paintings. i am sure you are being of great use to him.”

as a matter of fact, canterton had hardly so much as mentioned eve’s art to his wife, and eve herself felt that she had nothing to say to gertrude canterton. her pride hardened in her and refused to be cajoled.

“i am glad mr. canterton likes my work.”

“i am sure he does. have you studied much in town?”

“for two or three years. and i spent a year in paris.”

“indeed!”

gertrude canterton’s air of surprise was unconsciously offensive.

“do you ever paint portraits?”

“i have tried.”

“i hear it is the most lucrative part of the profession. now, miniatures, for instance—there has been quite a craze for miniatures. have you tried them?”

“oh, yes!”

“really? we must see what you can do. you might show me a—a sample, and i can mention it to my friends.”

eve had become ice.

“thank you, but i am afraid i shall not have the time.”

“indeed.”

“i want to give all my energy to flower painting.”

“i see—i see. oh, mrs. dempster, how are you? how good of you to come. have you had tea? no? oh, do come and let me get you some!”

eve was alone again, and conscious of a sense of strife within her. gertrude canterton’s voice had raised an echo, an echo that brought back suggestions of antipathy and scorn. those few minutes spent with her had covered the world of eve’s impressions with a cold, grey light. she felt herself a hard young woman, quite determined against patronage, and quite incapable of letting herself be made a fool of by any emotions whatever.

glancing aside she saw canterton talking to a parson. he was talking with his lips, but his eyes were on her. he had the hovering and impatient air of a man held back against his inclinations, and trying to cover with courtesy his desire to break away.

he was coming back to her, for there was something inevitable and magnetic about those eyes of his. a little spasm of shame and exultation glowed out from the midst of the half cynical mood that had fallen on her. she turned and moved away, wondering what had become of lynette.

“i want to show you something.”

she felt herself thrill. the hardness seemed to melt at the sound of his voice.

“oh?”

“let’s get away from the crowd. it is really preposterous. what fools we all are in a crowd.”

“too much self-consciousness.”

“are you, too, self-conscious?”

“sometimes.”

“not when you are interested.”

“perhaps not.”

they passed several of canterton’s men parading the walks leading to the nurseries. temporary wire fences and gates had been put up here and there. canterton smiled.

“doesn’t it strike you as almost too pointed?”

“what, that barbed wire?”

“yes. i believe i have made myself an offence to the neighbourhood. but the few people i care about understand. besides, we give to our friends.”

“i think you must have been a brave man.”

“no, an obstinate one. i did not see why the mrs. brocklebanks should have pieces of my rare plants. i have even had my men bribed once or twice. you should hear lavender on the subject. look at that!”

he had brought her down to see the heath garden, and her verdict was an awed silence. they stood side by side, looking at the magnificent masses of colour glowing in the afternoon light.

“oh, how exquisite!”

“it is rather like drinking when one is thirsty.”

“yes.”

he half turned to her.

“i want to see the latimer paintings. may i come down after dinner, and have a chat with your mother?”

she felt something rise in her throat, a faint spasm of resistance that lasted only for a moment.

“but—the artificial light?”

“i want to see them.”

it was not so much a surrender on her part as a tacit acceptance of his enthusiasm.

“yes, come.”

“thank you.”