“Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t see what you have put on paper——”
Miss Whiffen was clamouring to be told the name of a certain rose.
“Mrs. Canterton—Mrs. Canterton!”
“Yes, dear?”
“Do tell me the name of this rose!”
“I’ll come and look. I can’t burden my memory with the names of flowers. Perhaps it is labelled. Everything ought to be labelled. It is such a saving of time.”
Eve smiled, and turning to glance at the rose bed she was painting, discovered a big woman in black hanging a large white face over the one particular rose in the garden. Mrs. Brocklebank had discovered Guinevere, and a cherished flower that was just opening to the sunlight.
Mrs. Brocklebank always carried a black vanity bag, though it did not contain such things as mirror, papier poudre, violet powder, hairpins, and scent. A notebook, two or three neat twists of string, a pair of scissors, a mother-of-pearl card-case, pince-nez, and a little bottle of corn solvent that she had just bought in Basingford—these were the occupants. Eve saw her open the bag, take out the scissors, and bend over Guinevere.
Eve dared to intervene.
“Excuse me, but that rose must not be touched.”