She turned to him with an impulsive flash of the eye. “Have you? I like the idea of that. Just watching the dawn.” Her shyness had gone, and Canterton felt that an extraordinary thing had happened. She no longer seemed a stranger among his roses, although she had not been more than ten minutes in the rosery. “Nature opens her secret doors only to those who are patient.” “And what a fascinating life! Like becoming very tiny, just a fairy, and letting oneself down into the heart of a rose.” He had it, the thing that had puzzled him. She was just such a child as Lynette, save that she was the woman. There was the same wonder, the same delightful half-earnest playfulness, the same seeing look in the eyes, the same sensitive quiver about the mouth. She was gazing at Guinevere. “Oh, that piques me, challenges me!” “What, the flower?” “It makes me think of the conquest of colours that I want to try.” He understood. “Come and paint it.” “May I?” “Certainly.” “If I might come and try.” “You had better come soon.” “This afternoon?” “Why not?” “It is very good of you, Mr. Canterton.” “Not a bit.” “Then I’ll come.” She kept to her word, and reappeared about two o’clock with her paint box, a camp stool, and a drawing-block. Canterton had lunched in the rosery. He surrendered his place under the white umbrella, made her sit in the shade, and went to fetch a jug of water for her brushes. He rejoined her, bringing another garden chair with him, and so it happened that they spent the afternoon together. Canterton smoked and read, while Eve Carfax was busy with her brushes. She seemed absorbed in her work, and Canterton, looking up from his book from time to time, watched her without being noticed. The intent poise of her head reminded him vaguely of some picture he had seen. Her mouth had a meditative tenderness, and her eyes were full of a quiet delight. Presently she sat back in her chair, and held the sketch at arm’s length. Her eyes became more critical, questioning, and there was a quiver of indecision about her mouth. “Have you finished it?” She glanced at him as though startled. “In a way. But I can’t quite make up my mind.” “May I see?” She passed him the block and watched his face as he examined the work. Once or twice he glanced at Guinevere. Then he stood up, and putting the painting on the chair, looked at it from a little distance. “Excellent.” She flushed. “Do you think so?” “I have never seen a better flower picture.” “It is such a subtle study in colours that I could not be sure.” “You must be very self-critical.” “Oh, I am!” He turned and looked at her with a new expression, the respect of the expert for an expert’s abilities. “You have made a study of flowers?” “Yes.” “Of course you must have done. I ought to know that.” Her colour grew richer. “Mr. Canterton, I don’t think I have ever had such praise. I mean, praise that I valued. I love flowers so much, and you know them so intimately.”