The mystery of the woods seemed to quicken that other mysterious self-consciousness that had been stirred by the child, Lynette. They were in tune, strung to vibrate to the same subtle, and plaintive notes. As they walked, their intimate selves kept touching involuntarily and starting apart, innocent of foreseeing how rich a thrill would come from the contact. Their eyes questioned each other behind a veil of incredulity and wonder. “You will write to Lynette?” “Oh, yes!” There was a naive and half plaintive uplift of her voice towards the “yes.” “Little Beech Leaf is a warm-hearted fairy. Do you know, I am very glad of this comradeship, for her sake.” “You make me feel very humble.” “No. You are just the kind of elder sister that she needs.” He had almost said mother, and the word mother was in Eve’s heart. “Do you realise that I am learning from Lynette?” “I don’t doubt it. One ought to learn deep things from a child.” They reached the lane leading to Orchards Corner, and on coming to the white fence sighted Mrs. Carfax sitting in the garden, with the inevitable knitting in her lap. Canterton was taken in and introduced. “Please don’t get up.” Mrs. Carfax was coy and a little fluttered. “Do sit down, Mr. Canterton. I feel that I must thank you for your great kindness to my daughter. I am sure that both she and I are very grateful.” “So am I, Mrs. Carfax.” “Indeed, Mr. Canterton?” “For the very fine work your daughter is going to do for me. I was in doubt as to who to get, when suddenly she appeared.” Mrs. Carfax bowed in her chair like some elderly queen driving through London. “I am so glad you like Eve’s paintings. I think she paints quite nicely. Of course she studied a great deal at the art schools, and she would have exhibited, only we could not afford all that we should have liked to afford. It is really most fortunate for Eve that you should be so pleased with her painting.” Her placid sing-song voice, with its underlining of the “sos” the “quites,” and the “mosts,” made Canterton think of certain maiden aunts who had tried to spoil him when he was a child. Mother and daughter were in strange contrast. The one all fire, sensitive aliveness, curiosity, colour; the other flat, sweetly foolish, toneless, apathetic. Canterton stayed chatting with Mrs. Carfax for twenty minutes, while Eve sat by in silence, watching them with an air of dispassionate curiosity. Mrs. Carfax was just a child, and Canterton was at his best with children. Eve found herself thinking how much bigger, gentler, and more patient his nature was than hers. Things that irritated her, made him smile. He was one of the few masterful men who could bear with amiable stupidity. When he had said good-bye to her mother, Eve went with him to the gate. “Good-bye. Enjoy yourself. And when you write to Lynette, send me a word or two.” He held her hand for two or three seconds, and his eyes looked into hers. “You will be delighted with Latimer.”