“I like wagwim better. Do come.” “Miss Canterton, I am most seriously occupied.” She tossed her hair, and turned on Eve. “You’ll come too, Miss Eve? Now I’ve invited you, daddy will have to come. Ask him.” Eve looked at Canterton, and there was something strange in the eyes of both. “Mr. Canterton, I am requested to ask you——” “I surrender. I may as well tell you, Miss Carfax, that very few people are invited into the Wilderness. It is fairyland.” “I appreciate it. Lynette, may I come and build a wagwim with you?” “Yes, do. What a nice voice you’ve got.” “Have I?” Eve blushed queerly, and was intimately conscious of Canterton’s eyes looking at her with peculiar and half wondering intentness. “I’m going to have dinner there. Mother is out, and Miss Vance is going to Guildford by train. And Sarah has given me two jam tarts, and some cheese straws, and two bananas——” Canterton tweaked her hair. “That’s an idea. I’m on good terms with Sarah. We’ll have some lunch and a bottle of red wine sent down to the Wilderness and picnic in a wagwim, if the wagwim wams by lunch time.” “Come along—come along, Miss Eve! I’ll show you the way! I’m so glad you like wagwims!” So these three went down to the Wilderness together, into the green light of the larch wood, and into a world of laughter, mystery and joy. * * * * * CHAPTER VI WOMEN OF VIRTUE The local committee of a society for the propagation of something or other had taken possession of Canterton’s library, and Mrs. Brocklebank was the dominant lady. The amount of business done at these meetings was infinitesimal, for Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton were like battleships that kept up a perpetual booming of big guns, hardly troubling to notice the splutter of suggestions fired by the lesser vessels. The only person on the committee who had any idea of business was little Miss Whiffen, the curate’s sister. She was one of those women who are all profile, a busy, short-sighted, argumentative creature who did her best to prevent Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton from claiming the high seas as their own. She fussed about like a torpedo boat, launching her torpedoes, and scoring hits that should have blown most battleships out of the water. But Mrs. Brocklebank was unsinkable, and Gertrude Canterton was protected by the net of her infinite self-satisfaction. Whatever Miss Whiffen said, they just kept on booming. Sometimes they squabbled politely, while old Lady Marchendale, who was deaf, sat and dozed in her chair. They were squabbling this afternoon over a problem that, strange to say, had something to do with the matter in hand. Miss Whiffen had contradicted Mrs. Brocklebank, and so they proceeded to argue. “Every thinking person ought to realise that there are a million more women than men in the country.” “I wasn’t questioning that.”