“You had better come soon.”
“This afternoon?”
“Why not?”
“It is very good of you, Mr. Canterton.”
“Not a bit.”
“Then I’ll come.”
She kept to her word, and reappeared about two o’clock with her paint box, a camp stool, and a drawing-block. Canterton had lunched in the rosery. He surrendered his place under the white umbrella, made her sit in the shade, and went to fetch a jug of water for her brushes. He rejoined her, bringing another garden chair with him, and so it happened that they spent the afternoon together.
Canterton smoked and read, while Eve Carfax was busy with her brushes. She seemed absorbed in her work, and Canterton, looking up from his book from time to time, watched her without being noticed. The intent poise of her head reminded him vaguely of some picture he had seen. Her mouth had a meditative tenderness, and her eyes were full of a quiet delight.
Presently she sat back in her chair, and held the sketch at arm’s length. Her eyes became more critical, questioning, and there was a quiver of indecision about her mouth.
“Have you finished it?”