“You’ve got pretty hot, anyhow.” “I walked fast. I went farther than I meant to.” “Meet any friends?” “One or two.” She caught a pair of mistrustful eyes fixed on her. They belonged to Joan Gaunt, who sat at the end of the table. “I think we’ll have the lamp, Lizzie.” “Right oh! or Eve won’t be able to hunt the slugs out of the lettuces.” “Don’t be beastly.” “You might cut me a piece of bread.” The lamp was lit. The other two had finished their supper, but appeared inclined to sit there and watch Eve eat. “You met some old friends?” “Yes.” “I hope you were careful.” “Of course. I told them I was on a walking tour. I dare say I shan’t see them again.” “No. I don’t think you’d better.” Something in Joan Gaunt’s voice annoyed her. It was quietly but harshly dictatorial, and Eve stiffened. “I don’t think you need worry. I can look after my own affairs.” “Did you live in Basingford?” “No. Out in the country.” Lizzie Straker and Joan Gaunt exchanged glances. Something had happened to the woman in Eve, a something that was so patent and yet so mysterious that even these two fanatics noticed it and were puzzled. Had she looked into a mirror before entering the sitting-room, she would have been struck by a physical transfiguration of which she was for the moment unconscious. She had changed into a more spring-like and more sensitive study of herself. There was the indefinable suggestion of bloom upon fruit. Her face looked fuller, her skin more soft, her lips redder, her eyes brighter yet more elusive. She had been bathing in deep and magic waters and had emerged with a shy tenderness hovering about her mouth, and an air of sensuous radiance. Supper was cleared away. The lamp was replaced on the table. Joan Gaunt brought out a note-book and her cypher-written itinerary. Lizzie Straker lit a cigarette. “Business!” They exchanged glances. “Come along, Eve.” Somehow the name seemed to strike all three of them with symbolical suggestiveness. Her comrades looked at her mistrustfully. They sat down at the table. “As you happen to know people here, you had better be on your guard. There is work to be done here. I have just wired to Galahad.” Eve met Joan Gaunt’s eyes. “Are there black sheep in Basingford?” “A particularly black one. An anti-suffrage lunatic. She has been on platforms against us. That makes one feel bitter.” “So it’s a she!” “She’s a traitress—a fool.” “I wonder if I know her name.” “It’s Canterton—Mrs. James Canterton.” Eve was leaning her elbows on the table, trying not to show how this news affected her. And suddenly she began to laugh. Joan Gaunt’s face stiffened. “What are you laughing at?” It was wholesome, helpless, exquisite laughter that escaped and bubbled over from a delicious sense of fun. What an ironical comedy. Eve did not realise the complete significance of what she said until she had said it. “Why, I should have thought she was one of us!”