“I hear it is the most lucrative part of the profession. Now, miniatures, for instance—there has been quite a craze for miniatures. Have you tried them?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Really? We must see what you can do. You might show me a—a sample, and I can mention it to my friends.”
Eve had become ice.
“Thank you, but I am afraid I shall not have the time.”
“Indeed.”
“I want to give all my energy to flower painting.”
“I see—I see. Oh, Mrs. Dempster, how are you? How good of you to come. Have you had tea? No? Oh, do come and let me get you some!”
Eve was alone again, and conscious of a sense of strife within her. Gertrude Canterton’s voice had raised an echo, an echo that brought back suggestions of antipathy and scorn. Those few minutes spent with her had covered the world of Eve’s impressions with a cold, grey light. She felt herself a hard young woman, quite determined against patronage, and quite incapable of letting herself be made a fool of by any emotions whatever.
Glancing aside she saw Canterton talking to a parson. He was talking with his lips, but his eyes were on her. He had the hovering and impatient air of a man held back against his inclinations, and trying to cover with courtesy his desire to break away.