Canterton had taken her hand and held it a moment, but his eyes never left her face. She was mute, full of a wonder that was half exultant, half afraid. All those subtle fancies that had haunted her at Latimer were becoming realities, instead of melting away into the reasonable sunlight. What had happened to both of them in a week? He was the same big, brown, quiet man of the world, magnanimous, reliable, a little reticent and proud, yet from the moment that he had spoken and she had turned to meet his eyes she had known that he had changed. “I promised Lynette that I would come.” “Aren’t you tired?” “Tired? No. I left Latimer early, and after all, it is only seventy miles. I got home about twelve and found mother knitting just as though she had been knitting ever since I left her. Lynette looks lovely.” She felt the wild necessity of chattering, of covering things up with sound, of giving her thoughts time to steady themselves. His eyes overwhelmed her. It was not that they were too audacious or too intimate. On the contrary they looked at her with a new softness, a new awe, a kind of vigilant tenderness that missed nothing. “I think you are looking very well.” “I am very well.” She caught quick flitting glances going over her, noticing her simple little black hat shaped like an almond, her virginal white dress and long black gloves. The black and white pleased him. Her feminine instinct told her that. “I came round here to listen to the music.” “Music is expected at these shows, and not listened to. I always call this ‘Padlock Day.’” She laughed, glad of a chance to let emotions relax for a moment. “Padlock Day! Do you mean——” “There are too many Mrs. Brocklebanks about.” “But surely——” “You would be surprised if I were to tell you how some of my choice things used to be pilfered on these party days. Now I shut up my business premises on these state occasions, for fear the Mrs. Brocklebanks should bring trowels in their sunshades.” “And instead, you give them good music?” “Which they don’t listen to, and they could not appreciate it if they did.” “You are severe!” “Am I? Supposing these men gave us the Second Hungarian Rhapsody, how could you expect the people to understand it? In fact, it is not a thing to be understood, but to be felt. Our good friends would be shocked if they felt as Liszt probably meant people to feel it. Blood and wine and garlands and fire in the eyes. Well, how did you like Latimer?” The blood rose again to her face, and she knew that the same light was in his eyes. “Perfect. I was tempted to dream all my time away instead of painting. I hope you will like the pictures. There was something in the atmosphere of the place that bothered me.” “Oh?” “Yes, just as though ghosts were trying to play tricks with my hands. The gardens are classic, renaissance, or what you please. It should have been all sunny, delightful formalism, but then——” “Something Gothic crept in.” “How do you know that?”