Tea was a merry meal, with both Lynette and her father dilating on the particular excellences of the different cakes, and insisting that she would be pleasing Sarah by allowing herself to be greedy. In the fullness of time Canterton lit a pipe, and Lynette, sitting next him on the green rug with her arms about her knees, grew talkative and problematical. “Isn’t it funny how God sends people children?” “Most strange.” “What did you say, daddy, when God sent you me?” “‘Here’s another horrible responsibility!’” “Daddy, you didn’t! But wasn’t it funny that I was sent to mother?” “Lynette, old lady——” “Now, why wasn’t I sent to Miss Eve?” Canterton reached out and lifted her into his lap. “Bruin tickles little girls who ask too many questions.” In the midst of her struggles and her laughter his eyes met Eve’s, and found them steady and unabashed, yet full of a vivid self-consciousness. They glimmered when they met his, sending a mesmeric thrill through him, and for the moment he could not look away. It was as though the child had flashed a mysterious light into the eyes of both, and uttered some deep nature cry that had startled them in the midst of their playfulness. Canterton’s eyes seemed to become bluer, and more intent, and Eve’s mouth had a tremulous tenderness. Lynette was a young lady of dignity, and Canterton was reproved. “Look how you’ve rumpled my dress, daddy.” “I apologise. Supposing we go for a ramble, and call for our baggage on the way back.” Both Eve and Canterton rose, and Lynette came between them, holding each by the hand. They wandered through the Wilderness and down by the pollard pool, where the swallows skimmed the still water. Lynette was mute, sharing the half dreamy solemnity of her elders. The playfulness was out of the day, and even the child felt serious. It was past six when they returned to the garden, and Lynette, whose supper hour was due, hugged Eve hard as she said good-bye. “You will write to me, Miss Eve, dear.” “Yes, I’ll write.” She found that Canterton had not come to the point of saying good-bye. He walked on with her down one of the nursery roads between groups of rare conifers. “I am going to walk to Orchards Corner. Do you mind?” “No.” “I haven’t met your mother yet. I don’t know whether it is the proper time for a formal call.” “Mother will be delighted. She is always delighted.” “A happy temperament.” “Very.” They chose the way through the fir woods, and talked of the Latimer Abbey gardens, and of the particular atmosphere Canterton wanted her to produce for him. “Oh, you’ll get it! You’ll get the very thing.” “What an optimist you are.” “Perhaps I am more of a mystic.”