“Children have a way of being absurd, and very often the gods are absurd with them. The child shall have a black frock.”
Gertrude twitched her shoulders, and refused to be responsible for Canterton’s methods.
“You are spoiling that child. I know it is quite useless for me to suggest anything.”
“You are not much of a child yourself, Gertrude. I am. That makes a difference.”
Canterton had his car out that afternoon and drove twenty miles to Reading, with Lynette on the seat beside him. He knew, better than any woman, what suited the child, so Lynette had a black frock and a little Quaker bonnet to wear for that other child, Mrs. Carfax, who was dead.
Within a week Eve was back at Fernhill, painting masses of hollyhocks and sweet peas, with giant sunflowers and purple-spiked buddlea for a background. Perhaps nothing had touched her more than Lynette’s black frock and the impulsive sympathy that had suggested it.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Eve, dear. I do love you ever so much more now.”
And Eve had never been nearer tears, with Lynette snuggling up to her, one arm round her neck, and her warm breath on Eve’s cheek.
It was holiday time, and Miss Vance’s authority was reduced to the supervision of country walks, and the giving of a daily piano lesson. Punch, the terrier, accompanied them on their walks, and Miss Vance hated the dog, feeling herself responsible for Punch’s improprieties. Her month’s holiday began in a few days, and Lynette had her eyes on five weeks of unblemished liberty.
“Vancie goes on Friday. Isn’t it grand!”