Gertrude Canterton chatted for another five minutes and then rose to go. She shook hands cordially with Mrs. Carfax, and was almost as cordial with Eve. And it was this blind, self-contentment of hers that made her so universally detested. She never knew when people’s bristles were up, and having a hide like leather, she wriggled up and rubbed close, never suspecting that most people were possessed by a savage desire to say some particularly stinging thing that should bite through all the thickness of her egotism. “Thank goodness!” “Eve, you were quite rude! And you need not have said, dear——” “Mother, I told the truth only in self-defence. I was expecting some other deserving charity to arrive at any moment.” “It is better to give, dear, than to receive.” “Is it? Of course, we needn’t pay the tradesmen, and we can send the money to some missionary agency.” “Eve, dear, please don’t be flippant. A word spoken in jest——” “I’m not, mother. I’m most desperately serious.” Gertrude Canterton had a very successful afternoon. She motored about forty miles, trifled with three successive teas, and bored some seven householders into promising to consider the claims of the Shop Girls’ Rest Society. She was very talkative at dinner, describing and criticising the various people from whom she had begged. Canterton showed sudden annoyance. “You went to the Carfaxes?” “Yes.” “And got something from them?” “Of course, James.” “You shouldn’t go to such people.” Her face was all sallow surprise. “Why, they are quite respectable, and——” “Respectable! Do you think I meant that! You know, Gertrude, you charitable people are desperately hard sometimes on the real poor.” “What _do_ you mean, James?” “People like the Carfaxes ought not to be worried. You are so infernally energetic!” “James, I protest!” “Oh, well, let it pass.” “If you mean——Of course, I can send the money back.” He looked at her with a curious and wondering severity. “I shouldn’t do that, Gertrude. Some people are rather sensitive.” Canterton went into the library after dinner, before going up to say “good night” to Lynette. Within the last two days some knowledge of the Carfaxes and their life had come to him, fortuitously, and yet with a vividness that had roused his sympathy. For though James Canterton had never lacked for money, he had that intuitive vision that gives a man understanding and compassion. His glance fell upon the manuscript of “The Book of the English Garden” lying open on his desk. An idea struck him. Why should not Eve Carfax give the colour to this book? To judge by her portrait of Guinevere, hers was the very art that he needed. * * * * * CHAPTER V EVE ENTERS THE WILDERNESS