To him this enchanted island had risen out of the sea, and floated, dew-drenched, in the pure light of the dawn. He saw no reason why he should bid so beautiful a thing sink back again and be lost under the waters. He had no desecrating impulses. Why should not two people look together at life with eyes that smiled and understood? They were harming no one, and they were transfiguring each other. Canterton and his wife were dining alone, and for once he deliberately chose to talk to her of his work, and of his future plans. Gertrude would listen perfunctorily, but he was determined that she should listen. The intimate part of his life did not concern her, simply because she was no longer either in his personality or in his work. So little sympathy was there between them that they had never succeeded in rising to a serious quarrel. “I am taking Miss Carfax into the business. I thought you might like to know.” So dead was her personal pride in all that was male in him, that she did not remember to be jealous. “That ought to be a great opportunity for the girl.” “I shall benefit as much as she will. She has a very remarkable gift, just something I felt the need of and could not find.” “Then she is quite a discovery?” Canterton watched his wife’s face and saw no clouding of its complacency. “She will be a very great help in many ways.” “I see. You will make her a kind of fashion-plate artist to produce new designs.” “Yes.” “I had thought of doing something for the girl. I had suggested to her that she might paint miniatures.” “I think I shall keep her pretty busy.” “I have only spoken to her once or twice, and she struck me as rather reserved, and stiff. I suppose she and Lynette——” “She and Lynette get on wonderfully.” “So Miss Vance told me. And, of course, that black frock——I hope she doesn’t spoil the child.” “Not a bit. She does her good.” “Lynette wants someone with plenty of common sense to discipline her. I think Miss Vance is really excellent.” “A very reliable young woman.” “She’s not too sentimental and emotional.” They had finished dessert, and Gertrude Canterton went straight to her desk to write some of those innumerable letters that took up such a large part of her life. Letter-writing was one of her methods of self-expression, and her busy audacity was never to be repelled. She wrote to an infinite number of charitable institutions for their literature; to authors for autograph copies of their books to sell at bazaars; to actors for their signatures and photographs; to cartoonists for some sketch or other on which money might be raised for some charitable purpose; to tradesmen for free goods, offering them her patronage and a fine advertisement on some stall. Canterton did not wait for coffee, but lit a pipe and strolled out into the garden, and walking up and down in a state of wonder, tried to make himself realise that he and Gertrude were man and wife.