“Oh, fudge! What you call being ‘savage,’ is being healthy and natural. You don’t want to make the child a woman before she’s been a child.” The gong rang for tea. Eve was painting in the rosery when Mrs. Brocklebank persuaded the members of the committee that she—and therefore they—wanted to see Mr. Canterton’s roses. It was a purely perfunctory pilgrimage, so far as Gertrude Canterton was concerned, and her voice struck a note of passive disapproval. “I think there is much too much time and money wasted upon flowers.” “Oh, Mrs. Canterton! But isn’t this just sweet!” “I don’t know very much about roses, but I believe my husband’s are supposed to be wonderful.” She sighted Eve, stared, and diverged towards her down a side path, smiling with thin graciousness. “Miss Carfax?” Eve did not offer to explain her presence. She supposed that Gertrude Canterton knew all about her husband’s book, and the illustrations that were needed. “You are making a study of flowers?” “Yes.” “That’s right. I hope you will find plenty of material here.” “Mr. Canterton was kind enough to let me come in and see what I could do.” “Exactly. May I see?” She minced round behind Eve, and looked over the girl’s shoulder at the sketch she had on her lap. “That’s quite nice—quite nice! But what a lot of colour you have put into it.” “There is rather a lot of colour in the garden itself.” “Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t see what you have put on paper——” Miss Whiffen was clamouring to be told the name of a certain rose. “Mrs. Canterton—Mrs. Canterton!” “Yes, dear?” “Do tell me the name of this rose!” “I’ll come and look. I can’t burden my memory with the names of flowers. Perhaps it is labelled. Everything ought to be labelled. It is such a saving of time.” Eve smiled, and turning to glance at the rose bed she was painting, discovered a big woman in black hanging a large white face over the one particular rose in the garden. Mrs. Brocklebank had discovered Guinevere, and a cherished flower that was just opening to the sunlight. Mrs. Brocklebank always carried a black vanity bag, though it did not contain such things as mirror, _papier poudre_, violet powder, hairpins, and scent. A notebook, two or three neat twists of string, a pair of scissors, a mother-of-pearl card-case, pince-nez, and a little bottle of corn solvent that she had just bought in Basingford—these were the occupants. Eve saw her open the bag, take out the scissors, and bend over Guinevere. Eve dared to intervene. “Excuse me, but that rose must not be touched.” Perhaps she put her protest crudely, but Mrs. Brocklebank showed hauteur. “Indeed!” “I believe Mr. Canterton wants that flower.” “What is it, Philippa?” Mrs. Canterton had returned, and came wriggling and edging behind Eve. “There is rather a nice bud here, and I was going to steal it, but this young lady——” “Miss Carfax!” Eve felt her face flushing. “I believe Mr. Canterton wants that flower.”