“Just come from Orchards Corner, sir. The young lady brought it.” “Miss Carfax?” “No, sir, the young lady.” “I see. All right, Gibbs.” Canterton opened the letter, and stood reading it in the shade of a row of cypresses. “Dear Mr. Canterton,—Mother died in the night. She must have died in her sleep. I always knew it might happen, but I never suspected that it would happen so suddenly. It has numbed me, and yet made me think. “I wanted you to know why I did not come to-day. “EVE CARFAX.” Canterton stood stock still, his eyes staring at Eve’s letter. He was moved, strongly moved, as all big-hearted people must be by the sudden and capricious presence of Death. The little white-haired, chattering figure had seemed so much alive the night before, so far from the dark waters, with her child’s face and busy hands. And Eve had written to tell him the news, to warn him why she had not come to Fernhill. This letter of hers—it asked nothing, and yet its very muteness craved more than any words could ask. To Canterton it was full of many subtle and intimate messages. She wanted him to know why she had stayed away, though she did not ask him to come to her. She had let him know that she was stricken, and that was all. He put the letter in his pocket, forgot about Mrs. Grigg Batsby, and started for Orchards Corner. All the blinds were down, and the little house had a blank and puzzled look. The chair that he had used the previous night still stood in the middle of one of the lawns. Canterton opened and closed the gate noiselessly, and walked up the gravel path. Eve herself came to the door. He had had a feeling that she had expected him to come to her, and when he looked into her eyes he knew that he had not been wrong. She was pale, and quite calm, though her eyes looked darker and more mysterious. “Will you come in?” There was no hesitation, no formalism. Each seemed to be obeying an inevitable impulse. Canterton remained silent. Eve opened the door of the drawing-room, and he followed her. She sat down on one of the green plush chairs, and the dim light seemed part of the silence. “I thought you might come.” “Of course I came.” He put his hat on the round table. Eve glanced round the room at the pictures, the furniture and the ornaments. “I have been sitting here in this room. I came in here because I realised what a ghastly prig I have been at times. I wanted to be hurt—and hurt badly. Isn’t it wonderful how death strips off one’s conceit?” He leant forward with his elbows on his knees, a listener—one who understood. “How I used to hate these things, and to sneer at them. I called them Victorian, and felt superior. Tell me, what right have we ever to feel superior?” “We are all guilty of that.”