Eve was puzzled. She made sketch after sketch, and yet was not satisfied. Was it mediævalism creeping in, the ghosts of old monks moving round her, and throwing the shadows of their frocks over a pagan mosaic? Or was the confusing magic in her own brain, or some underflow of feeling that welled up and disturbed her purpose? Moreover, she discovered that another personality had followed her to Latimer. She felt as though Canterton were present, standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, and watching her work. She seemed to see things with his eyes, that the work was his work, and that it was not her personality alone that mattered. The impression grew and became so vivid that it forced her from the mere contemplation of the colours and the outlines of the things before her to a subtle consciousness of the world within herself. Why should she feel that he was always there at her elbow? And yet the impression was so strong that she fancied that she had but to turn her head to see him, to talk to him, and to look into his eyes for sympathy and understanding. She tried to shake the feeling off, to shrug her shoulders at it, and failed. James Canterton was with her all the while she worked. There was a second Italian garden at Latimer, a recreation, in the spirit, of the garden of the Villa d’Este at Tivoli, a hill garden, a world of terraces, stone stairways, shaded walks, box hedges, cypresses and cedars, fountains, cascades, great water cisterns. Here was more mystery, deeper shadows, a sadder note. Eve was painting in the lower garden on the day following the rain, when the lights were softer, the foliage fresher, the perfumes more pungent. There was the noise of water everywhere. The sunlight was more partial and more vague, splashing into the open spaces, hanging caught in the cypresses and cedars, touching some marble shape, or glittering upon the water in some pool. Try as she would, Eve felt less impersonal here than in the full sunlight of the upper garden. That other spirit that had sent her to Latimer seemed to follow her up and down the moss-grown stairways, to walk with her through the shadows under the trees. She was more conscious of Canterton than ever. He was the great, grave lord of the place, watching her work with steady eyes, compelling her to paint with a touch that was not all her own. Sometimes the head gardener, who had tea made for her in his cottage, came and watched her painting and angled for a gossip. He was a superior sort of ancient, with a passion for unearthing the history of plants that had been introduced from distant countries. Canterton’s name came up, and the old man found something to talk about. “I don’t say as I’m an envious chap, but that’s the sort of life as would have suited me.” Eve paused at her work. “Whose?” “Why, Mr. Canterton’s, Miss.” “You know Mr. Canterton by name?”