She snuggled up to Eve, and an arm went round her. “I’m afraid I can’t, dear, to-day.” “Why can’t you?” “I must go home and take care of my mother.” Lynette seemed to regard this as a very quaint excuse. “How funny! Fancy anyone wanting to take care of my mother. Why, she’s always wanting to take care of everybody else, ’cept me! I wonder if they like it? I shouldn’t.” “Your mother is very kind to everybody, dear.” “Is she? Then why don’t Sarah, and Ann, and Edith, and Johnson, like her? I know they don’t, for I’ve heard them talking. They all love you, daddy.” Canterton looked at her gravely. “You mustn’t listen to what everybody says. And never tell tales of everybody. Come along, old lady, we’ll go down to the Wilderness.” “I wish you’d come, Miss Eve.” “I wish I could, but I mustn’t to-day.” “I do like you so much, really I do.” Eve drew Lynette close and kissed her with impulsive tenderness. And Canterton, who saw the love in the kiss, felt that he was standing at the gateway of mystery. * * * * * CHAPTER IX LIFE AT FERNHILL The Fernhill breakfast table was very characteristic of the Canterton _ménage_. Gertrude Canterton came down ten minutes after the gong had sounded, bustling into the room with every sign of starting the day in a rush. Her hair looked messy, with untidy strands at the back of her neck. She wore any old dress that happened to come to hand, and as often as not she had a piece of tape hanging out, or a hook and eye unfastened. Breakfast time was not her hour. She looked yellow, and thin, and voracious, and her hands began fidgeting at once with the pile of letters and circulars beside her plate. Canterton had half finished breakfast. He and his wife were as detached from each other at table as they were in all their other relationships. Gertrude was quite incapable of pouring out his tea, and never remembered whether the sugar was in or not. She always plunged straight into her chaotic correspondence, slitting the envelopes and wrappers with a table knife, and littering the whole of her end of the table with paper. She complained of the number of letters she received, but her restless egoism took offence if she was not pestered each morning. Canterton had something to tell her, something that a curious sense of the fitness of things made him feel that she ought to know. It did not concern her in the least, but he always classed Gertrude and formalism together. “I have arranged with Miss Carfax to paint the illustrations for my book.” Gertrude was reading a hospital report, her bacon half cold upon her plate. “One moment, James.” He smiled tolerantly, and passed her his cup by way of protest. “Anyhow, I should like some more tea.” “Tea?” She took the cup, and proceeded to attempt two things at once. “You might empty the dregs out.” She humoured his fussiness.