On the third day the weather changed, and an absurd restlessness took possession of him. Rain came in rushes out of a hurrying grey sky, and the light and the warmth seemed to have gone out of the world. Mysterious outlines took on a sharp distinctness. Figures were no longer the glimmering shapes of an Arthurian dream. Canterton became more conscious of the physical part of himself, of appetites, needs, inclinations, tendencies. Something was hardening and taking shape. He began to think more definitely of Eve at Latimer, and she was no longer a mere radiance spreading itself over the routine of the day’s work. Was she comfortable at the old red-faced “George”? Was the weather interfering with her work? Would she write to Lynette, and would the letter have a word for him? What a wonderful colour sense she had, and what cunning in those fingers of hers. He liked to remember that peculiar radiant look, that tenderness in the eyes that came whenever she was stirred by something that was unusually beautiful. It was like the look in the eyes of a mother, or the light in the eyes of a woman who loved. He had seen it when she was looking at Lynette. Then, quite suddenly, he became conscious of a sense of loss. He was unable to fix his attention on his work, and his thoughts went drifting. He felt lonely. It was as though he had been asleep and dreaming, and had wakened up suddenly, hungry and restless, and vaguely discontented. Even Lynette’s chatter was a spell cast about his thoughts. Having created a heroine, the child babbled of her and her fascinations, and Canterton discovered a secret delight in hearing Lynette talk of Eve Carfax. He could not utter the things that the child uttered, and yet they seemed so inevitable and so true, so charmingly and innocently intimate. It brought Eve nearer, showed her to him as a more radiant, gracious, laughing figure. Lynette was an enchantress, a siren, and knew it not, and Canterton’s ears were open to her voice. “I wonder if my letter will come to-day, daddy?” “Perhaps!” “It’s over two—three days. It ought to be a big letter.” “A big letter for a little woman.” “I wonder if she writes as beautifully as she paints?” “Very likely.” “And, oh, daddy, will she be back for our garden party?” “I think so.” “Mother says I can’t behave nicely at parties. I shall go about with Miss Eve, and I’ll do just what she does. Then I ought to behave very nicely, oughtn’t I?” “Perfectly.” “I do love Miss Eve, daddy, don’t you?” “We always agree, Miss Pixie.” On the fourth day Lynette had her letter. It came by the morning’s post, with a little devil in red and black ink dancing on the flap of the envelope. Lynette had not received more than three letters in her life, and the very address gave her a beautiful new thrill. Miss Lynette Canterton, Fernhill, Basingford, Surrey.