“Nonsense. Why, there are hundreds here. Take it, my dear, by all means, take it.” “I don’t want to interfere with——” “I insist. James is absolutely foolish about his flowers. He won’t let me send a maid down with a basket. And we had such a quarrel once about the orchid house.” Eve turned and went back to her stool. Mrs. Brocklebank’s eyes followed her with solemn disapproval. “That’s a rather forward young person.” “Do take the flower, Philippa.” “I will.” And the rose was tucked into Mrs. Brocklebank’s belt. * * * * * CHAPTER VII CANTERTON PURSUES MRS. BROCKLEBANK Ten minutes later Eve saw Canterton enter the rosery. He was walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, pausing from time to time to examine some particular rose bush for any signs of blight or rust. Eve’s place was in the very centre of this little secret world of colour and perfume, and the grey paths led away from her on every side like the ground plan of a maze. There was some resemblance, too, to a silver web with strands spread and hung with iridescent dewdrops flashing like gems. In the midst of it all was the woman, watching, waiting, a mystery even to herself, while the man approached half circuitously, taking this path, and now that, drawing nearer and nearer to that central, feminine thing throned in the thick of June. Canterton walked along the last path as though he had only just realised Eve’s presence. She kept on with her work, looking down under lowered lashes at the sketching-block upon her knees. “Still working?” “Yes.” “Have you had any tea?” “No.” “I’ll have some sent out to you.” “Oh, please don’t bother.” “You may as well make a habit of it when you are working here.” She lifted eyes that smiled. “I am so very human, that sweet cakes and a cup of fine China tea——” “Remain human. I have a very special blend. You shall have it sent out daily, and I will issue instructions as to the cakes. Hallo!” He had discovered the spoiling of Guinevere. “Someone has taken that rose.” His profile was turned to her, and she studied it with sympathetic curiosity. “Mrs. Canterton and some friends have been here.” “Have they?” “And a stout lady in black discovered Guinevere, and produced a pair of scissors. I put in a word for the rose.” He faced her, looking down with eyes that claimed her as a partisan. “Thank you.” “I think the lady’s name is Mrs. Brocklebank.” He was half angry, half amused. “I might have suspected it. I suppose someone over-ruled your protest?” “Yes.” She went on with her work, brushing in a soft background of grey stones and green foliage. “Was Mrs. Canterton here?” “Yes.” Her eyes remained fixed upon the rose in front of her, and the poise of her head and the aloofness of her eyes answered his question before he asked it.