May was a month that Eve had missed at Fernhill, and it was one of the most opulent of months, the month of rhododendrons, azaleas, late tulips, anemones, and Alpines. Never since last year’s roses had she seen such colour, such bushes of fire, such quiet splendour. It was a beauty that overwhelmed and silenced; Oriental in some of its magnificence, yet wholly pure. The delicate colouring of the azaleas fascinated her. “I never knew there were such subtle shades. What are they?” “Ghents. They are early this year. Most people know only the old Mollis. There are such an infinite number of colours.” “These are just like fire—magic fire, burning pale, and burning red, the colour of amber, or the colour of rubies.” They wandered to and fro, Eve pointing out the flowers that pleased her. “We think the same as we did last year—am I to know anything?” She looked up at him quickly, with a quivering of the lashes. “Oh, yes, if you wish it! But I am not a renegade.” “I never suggested it. How is London?” Her face hardened a little, and her mouth lost its exquisite delight. “Being here, I realise how I hate London to live and struggle in. What is the use of pretending? I tried my strength there, and I was beaten. So now——” She paused, shrinking instinctively from telling him that she had become one of the marching, militant women. Fernhill, and this man’s presence, seemed to have smothered the aggressive spirit—rendered it superfluous. His eyes waited. “Well?” “I am on a walking tour with friends.” “Painting?” “No, proselytising.” “As a Suffragette?” “Yes, as a Militant Suffragette.” She detested the label with which she had to label herself, for she had a sure feeling that it would not impress him. “I had wondered.” His voice was level and unprejudiced. “Then it doesn’t shock you?” “No, because I know what life may have been for you, trying to sell art to pork-butchers. It is hard not to become bitter. Won’t you let me hear the whole story?” They were in the rosery, close to a seat set back in a recess cut in the yew hedge. Eve thought of that day when she had found him watching Guinevere. “Would you listen?” “I have been listening ever since the autumn, trying to catch any sounds that might come to me from where you were.” They sat down, about two feet apart, half turned towards each other. But Eve did not look at Canterton. She looked at the stone paths, the pruned rose bushes, the sky, the outlines of the distant firs. Words came slowly at first, but in a while she lost her self-consciousness. She felt that she could tell him everything, and she told him everything, even her adventure with Hugh Massinger. And then, suddenly, she was conscious that a cloud had come. She glanced at his face, and saw that he was angry. “Why didn’t you write?” “I couldn’t. And you are angry with me?”