“I have been to Latimer.” Her eyes met his with a flash of understanding. “Of course. But I——Well, you must judge.” The music had stopped, and an eddy of the crowd came lapping round behind the sequoia. Canterton was captured by an impetuous amateur gardener in petticoats who had written a book about something or other, and who always cast her net broadly at an interesting man. “Oh, Mr. Canterton, can you tell me about those Chinese primulas?” To Eve Carfax it appeared part of the whimsical and senseless spirit of such a gathering that she should be carried up against Gertrude Canterton, whose great joy was to exercise the power of patronage. “Miss Carfax, Mr. Canterton seems so pleased with your paintings. I am sure you are being of great use to him.” As a matter of fact, Canterton had hardly so much as mentioned Eve’s art to his wife, and Eve herself felt that she had nothing to say to Gertrude Canterton. Her pride hardened in her and refused to be cajoled. “I am glad Mr. Canterton likes my work.” “I am sure he does. Have you studied much in town?” “For two or three years. And I spent a year in Paris.” “Indeed!” Gertrude Canterton’s air of surprise was unconsciously offensive. “Do you ever paint portraits?” “I have tried.” “I hear it is the most lucrative part of the profession. Now, miniatures, for instance—there has been quite a craze for miniatures. Have you tried them?” “Oh, yes!” “Really? We must see what you can do. You might show me a—a sample, and I can mention it to my friends.” Eve had become ice. “Thank you, but I am afraid I shall not have the time.” “Indeed.” “I want to give all my energy to flower painting.” “I see—I see. Oh, Mrs. Dempster, how are you? How good of you to come. Have you had tea? No? Oh, do come and let me get you some!” Eve was alone again, and conscious of a sense of strife within her. Gertrude Canterton’s voice had raised an echo, an echo that brought back suggestions of antipathy and scorn. Those few minutes spent with her had covered the world of Eve’s impressions with a cold, grey light. She felt herself a hard young woman, quite determined against patronage, and quite incapable of letting herself be made a fool of by any emotions whatever. Glancing aside she saw Canterton talking to a parson. He was talking with his lips, but his eyes were on her. He had the hovering and impatient air of a man held back against his inclinations, and trying to cover with courtesy his desire to break away. He was coming back to her, for there was something inevitable and magnetic about those eyes of his. A little spasm of shame and exultation glowed out from the midst of the half cynical mood that had fallen on her. She turned and moved away, wondering what had become of Lynette. “I want to show you something.” She felt herself thrill. The hardness seemed to melt at the sound of his voice. “Oh?” “Let’s get away from the crowd. It is really preposterous. What fools we all are in a crowd.”