“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.”