Eve Carfax read James Canterton’s letter at breakfast, and her mother, who like many passive people, was vapidly inquisitive, wanted to know when the letter had come, why it had been written, what it said, and what it did not say. Eve was a little flushed, and ready to fall into a reverie while looking along a vista of sudden possibilities. This frank and straightforward letter had brought a flutter of exultation into her life. “Mr. Canterton wants me to do some flower pictures for him.” “How nice, dear! And shall you?” “Of course—if I can.” “It must have been our subscription to——” “Mother, is it likely?” “I am sure Mrs. Canterton was most charming. Is he going to pay you for——” “He doesn’t say anything about it.” “He might not think it quite nice to say anything—just at first.” “I really don’t know why it shouldn’t be nice to mention a thing that we all must have. He wants me to go and see him.” Eve set off for Fernhill with a delightful sense of exhilaration. She was in a mood to laugh, especially at the incident of yesterday, and at the loss of those two half-crowns that had seemed so tragic and depressing. This might be her first big bit of luck, the beginning of a wider, finer life for which she yearned. She was amused at her mother’s idea about Mrs. Canterton. Mrs. Canterton indeed! Why—the flow of her thoughts was sharply arrested, and held back by the uprising of a situation that suddenly appeared before her as something extraordinarily incongruous. These two people were married. This fussy, sallow-faced, fidgeting egotist, and this big, meditative, colour-loving man. What on earth were they doing living together in the same house. And what on earth was she herself doing letting her thoughts wander into affairs that did not concern her. She suppressed the curious feeling of distaste the subject inspired in her, took a plunge into a cold bath of self-restraint, and came out close knit and vigorous. Eve Carfax had a very fastidious pride that detested anything that could be described as vulgarly curious. She wanted no one to finger her own intimate self, and she recoiled instinctively from any tendency on her own part towards taking back-door views of life. She was essentially clean, with an ideal whiteness that yet could flush humanly. But the idea of contemplating the soiled petals of other people’s ideals repelled her. Eve entered the Fernhill Nurseries by the great oak gates that opened through a high hedge of arbor vitæ. She found herself in a large gravelled space, a kind of quadrangle surrounded by offices, storerooms, stables, and packing sheds, all built in the old English style of oak, white plaster, and red tiles. The extraordinary neatness of the place struck her. It was like a big forecourt to the mysteries beyond. She had her hand on the office bell when Canterton came out, having seen her through the window. He was in white flannels, and wearing a straw hat that deepened the colour of his eyes and skin.