Eve glanced up and saw the governess approaching along the brick-paved path. Miss Vance was a matter-of-fact young person, but she was a woman, with some of the more feminine attributes a little exaggerated. She was suburban, orthodox as to her beliefs, absolutely without imagination, yet healthily inquisitive. “Music, Lynette! What a nice bit of colour to paint, Miss Carfax.” “Quite Oriental, isn’t it?” These two women looked at each other, and Eve did not miss the apprizing and critical interest in Miss Vance’s eyes. She was a little casual towards Eve, with a casualness that suggested tacit disapproval. The surface was hard, the poise unsympathetic. “You ought to have good weather for your holiday. Where are you going?” “Brighton!” “Oh, Brighton!” “We always go to Brighton!” “A habit?” “We are a family of habits.” She held out a large and rather red hand to Lynette, but Lynette was an individualist. She, too, understood that Miss Vance was a habit, a time-table, a schedule, anything but a playmate. They went off together, Miss Vance with a last apprizing glance at Eve. One woman’s attitude may have a very subtle influence on the mood of another. Most women understand each other instinctively, perhaps through some ancient sex-language that existed long before sounds became words. Eve knew quite well what had been exercising Miss Vance’s mind, that she had been handling other people’s intimacies, calculating their significance, and their possible developments. And Eve felt angry, rebellious, scornful, troubled. As a woman she resented the suggestiveness of this other woman’s curiosity. Ten minutes later, when Canterton strolled into the walled garden, he found Eve sitting idle, her hands lying in her lap. He saw her as a slim black figure posed in thought, with the border unfurled before her like some rich tapestry, with threads of purple and gold upon a ground of green. She turned to him with a smile. “Lynette has just gone.” He did not suspect that her smile was a defence and a screen. “I hope the child does not interfere with your work.” “No. She lets me be quiet when something particularly delicate has to be done.” Canterton brought up a garden chair. “Will it bother you if I take Lynette’s place?” “No.” “I think I am a little too big for her stool.” Eve resumed her painting, but she soon discovered that her attention flowed more strongly towards the man beside her than towards the flowers in the border. The tapestry kept blurring its outlines and shifting its colours, and she played with the work, becoming more and more absorbed in what Canterton was saying. And yet she was striving all the while to keep a space clear for her own individuality, so that her thoughts could move without merely following his.