Lynette ran off, and they were left alone together. Canterton had brought up a deck chair, and was looking over some of Eve’s sketches that lay in a portfolio on the grass. His silence tantalised her. It was a force that had to be met and challenged. “I sent Lynette away because I wanted to speak to you.” He laid the sketch aside and sat waiting. “Why did you let her come to tempt me?” “Because I can see no real reason why you should go.” Her eyes became appealing. “Oh, how blind! And you let the child rush at me, let me feel her warm arms round my neck. It was not fair to me, or to any of us.” “To me it did not seem unfair, because I do not think that I am such a criminal.” “I know; you are so sure of yourself. But if you thought that the child would persuade me, you were very much deceived. It has made me realise more than anything else that I cannot go on with the life at Fernhill.” He bent forward in his chair. “Eve, I tell you from my heart that you are wrong. I want you to be something of a mother to Lynette. I can give the man’s touches, but my fingers are not delicate enough to bring out all the charm. Think, now.” She sat rigid, staring straight before her. “I have made up my mind.” “It is the privilege of wise minds to change, Eve. I want you as well as Lynette.” “Don’t make me suffer. Do you think it is easy?” “Let me show you——” “No, no! If you try to persuade me, I shall refuse to listen.” And then silence fell on both of them, for Lynette returned with a large rhubarb leaf holding a little mountain of red fruit. * * * * * CHAPTER XVIII EVE SPEAKS OUT Eve felt very restless that evening, and with seeming illogicality went up to her room at the old-time hour of nine. The day had been close and sultry, and the bedroom still felt hot after the hours of scorching sunlight on the tiles. Eve drew the curtains back, and opened the casement to its widest, for the upper windows were still fitted with the old lead-lights. The sill was deep, nearly a foot and a half broad, and Eve half lay and half leant upon it while the night air streamed in. And what a night! All jet and silver; for the moon was up over the fir woods, just as on the night when her mother died. The stillness was the stillness of a dawn where no birds sing. The nightingale had long been mute, and the nightjar preferred the oak woods in the clayland valleys. Eve’s ears could not snatch a single sound out of that vast motionless landscape, with its black woods and mysterious horizons.