Ten minutes later Eve saw Canterton enter the rosery.
He was walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, pausing from time to time to examine some particular rose bush for any signs of blight or rust. Eve’s place was in the very centre of this little secret world of colour and perfume, and the grey paths led away from her on every side like the ground plan of a maze. There was some resemblance, too, to a silver web with strands spread and hung with iridescent dewdrops flashing like gems. In the midst of it all was the woman, watching, waiting, a mystery even to herself, while the man approached half circuitously, taking this path, and now that, drawing nearer and nearer to that central, feminine thing throned in the thick of June.
Canterton walked along the last path as though he had only just realised Eve’s presence. She kept on with her work, looking down under lowered lashes at the sketching-block upon her knees.
“Still working?”
“Yes.”
“Have you had any tea?”
“No.”
“I’ll have some sent out to you.”
“Oh, please don’t bother.”
“You may as well make a habit of it when you are working here.”