Sometimes he wondered whether Gertrude was aware of this strong and incipient repulsion. He imagined that she felt nothing. He had not lived with her for fifteen years without discovering how thick was the skin of her restless egotism. Canterton had never known anyone who was so completely and actively self-satisfied. He never remembered having seen her in tears. As for their estrangement, it had come about gradually when he had chosen to change the life of the amateur for the life of the trader. Then there was the child, another gulf between them. A tacit yet silent antagonism had grown up round Lynette. On Canterton’s desk in the library lay the manuscript of his “Book of the English Garden.” He had been at work on it for two years, trying to get all the mystery and colour and beauty of growth into the words he used. He sat down at the desk, and turned over the pages written in that strong, regular, and unhurried hand of his. The manuscript smelt of lavender, for he always kept a few sprigs between the leaves. But to-night something seemed lacking in the book. It was too much a thing of black and white. The words did not strike upon his brain and evoke a glow of living colour. Roses were not red enough, and the torch lily had not a sufficient flame. “Colour, yes, colour!” He sat back and lit his pipe. “I must get someone to start the plates. I know just what I want, but I don’t quite know the person to do it.” He talked to himself—within himself. “Rogers? No, too flamboyant, not true. I want truth. There’s Peterson. No, I don’t like Peterson’s style—too niggling. Loses the charm in trying to be too correct.” He was disturbed by the opening of a door, and a sudden swelling of voices towards him. He half turned in his chair with the momentary impatience of a thinker disturbed. “Let us look it up under ‘hygiene.’” The library door opened, and the invasion displayed itself. “We want to look at the encyclopædia, James.” “It’s there!” “I always feel so stimulated when I am in a library, Mr. Canterton. I hope you don’t mind our——” “Oh, not in the least!” “I think we might make our notes here, Gertrude.” Gertrude Canterton was standing by a revolving book-stand looking out the volume they needed. “Yes. James, you might get us the other light, and put it on the table.” He got up, fetched the portable red-shaded lamp from a book-stand, set it on the oak table in the centre of the room, and turned on the switch. “Oh, and the ink, and a pen. Not one of your nibs. I can’t bear J’s.” “Something thinner?” “Please. Oh, and some paper. Some of that manuscript paper will do.” They established themselves at the table, Mrs. Brocklebank with the volume, Gertrude with the pen and paper. Mrs. Brocklebank brought out her pince-nez, adjusted them half down her nose, and began to turn over the pages. Canterton took a book on moths from a shelf, and sat down in an easy chair.