Lessons over, she went rushing out in search of her father, and, after canvassing various under-gardeners, discovered him in a corner of the rose nursery. “Miss Eve’s written, daddy! I knew she would. Would you like to read it? Here’s a message for you.” He sat down on a wooden bench, and drawing Lynette into the hollow of one arm, took the letter in a big hand. It was written on plain cream paper of a roughish texture, with a little picture of the “George Hotel” penned in the right upper corner. Eve’s writing was the writing of the younger generation, so different from the regular, sloping, characterless style of the feminine Victorians. It was rather upright, rather square, picturesque in its originality, and with a certain decorative distinctness that covered the sheet of paper with personal and intimate values. “Dear Lynette,—I am writing to you at a funny little table in a funny little window that looks out on Latimer Green. It has been raining all day—oh, such rain!—like thousands of silver wires falling down straight out of the sky. If you were here we would sit at the window and make pictures of the queer people—all legs and umbrellas—walking up and down the streets. Here is the portrait of an umbrella going out for a walk on a nice pair of legs in brown gaiters. “There is an old raven in the garden here. I tried to make friends with him, but he pecked my ankles. And they say he uses dreadful language. Wicked old bird! Here is a picture of him pretending to be asleep, with one eye open, waiting for some poor Puss Cat to come into the garden. “There is a nice old gardener who makes me tea in the afternoon, but I don’t like it so much as tea in the Wilderness. “I want to be back to see you in your new party frock next Friday. I feel quite lonely without the Queen of the Fairies. If you were here I would buy you such cakes at the little shop across the road. “Please tell Mr. Canterton that the weather was very good to me the first two days, and that I hope he will like the pictures that I have painted. “Good-bye, Lynette, dear, Much—much love to you, from “MISS EVE.” Lynette was ecstatic. “Isn’t it a lovely letter, daddy? And doesn’t she write beautifully? And it’s all spelt just as if it were out of a book.” Canterton folded the letter with meditative leisureliness. “Quite a lovely letter.” “I’m going to put it away in my jewel case.” “Jewel case? We are getting proud!” “It’s only a work-box, really, but I call it a jewel case.” “I see. Things are just what we choose to call them.”