“That queer, splodgy picture. I don’t understand the drawing. Now, if you look at one of your father’s pictures, the butcher’s shop, for instance——” Eve smiled, almost tenderly. “That is not a picture, mother. I mean, mine. It is just a whim.” “My dear, how can you paint a whim?” Eve glanced at Canterton and saw that he was absorbed in studying the last picture she had turned up from the portfolio. His eyes looked more deeply set and more intent, and he sat absolutely motionless, his head bowed slightly. “That is the best classic thing I managed to do.” He looked at her, nodded, and turned his eyes again to the picture. “But even there——” “There is a film of mystery?” “Yes.” “It was provoking. I’m afraid I have failed.” “No. That is Latimer. It was just what I saw and felt myself, though I could not have put it into colour. Show me the others again.” Mrs. Carfax knitted, and Eve put up sketch after sketch, watching Canterton’s face. “Now, I like that one, dear.” “Do you, mother?” “Yes, but why have you made all the poplar trees black?” “They are not poplars, mother, but cypresses.” “Oh, I see, cypresses, the trees they grow in cemeteries.” Canterton began to talk to Eve. “It is very strange that you should have seen just what I saw.” “Is it? But you are not disappointed?” His eyes met hers. “I don’t know anybody else who could have brought back Latimer like that. Quite wonderful.” “You mean it?” “Of course.” He saw her colour deepen, and her eyes soften. Mrs. Carfax was never long out of a conversation. “Are they clever pictures, Mr. Canterton?” “Very clever.” “I don’t think I understand clever pictures. My husband could paint a row of houses, and there they were.” “Yes, that is a distinct gift. Some of us see more, others less.” “Do you think that if Eve perseveres she will paint as well as her father?” Canterton remained perfectly grave. “She sees things in a different way, and it is a very wonderful way.” “I am so glad you think so. Eve, dear, is it not nice to hear Mr. Canterton say that?” Mrs. Carfax chattered on till Eve grew restless, and Canterton, who felt her restlessness, rose to go. He had come to be personal, so far as Eve’s pictures were concerned, but he had been compelled to be impersonal for the sake of the old lady, whose happy vacuity emptied the room of all ideas. “It was so good of you to come, Mr. Canterton.” “I assure you I have enjoyed it.” “I do wish we could persuade Mrs. Canterton to spend an evening with us. But then, of course, she is such a busy, clever woman, and we are such quiet, stay-at-home people. And I have to go to bed at ten. My doctor is such a tyrant.” “I hope I haven’t tired you.” “Oh, dear, no! And please give my kind remembrance to Mrs. Canterton.” “Thank you. Good night!”