“I have only to put in a few touches.”
He swung his chair round, and sat down as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to come and talk to her. Her curious resemblance to Lynette may have tricked him into a mood that was partly that of the playmate, partly that of the father. Lynette, the child, had set him an impetuous example. “Miss Eve feels the fairies in the wood, daddy. She feels them there, just like me.” That was it. Eve spoke and understood the same language as he and the child.
“I overtook Mrs. Brocklebank.”
“And rescued Guinevere?”
“Yes, and the good dragon pretended to be very innocent. I did not drag your name in, though I was reproved for not labelling things properly, and so inviting innocent old ladies to purloin flowers.”
“But you got the rose back?”
“Yes, and she managed to break the stalk off short in pulling it out of her belt. I wonder if you can tell me why the average woman is built on such mean lines?”
She gave him a sudden questioning glance which said, “Do you realise that you are going beneath the surface—that the real you in you is calling to the real me in me?”
He was looking at her intently, and there was something in his eyes that stirred a tremor of compassion in her.
“What I mean is, that the average woman seems a cad when she is compared to the average man. I mean, the women of the upper middle classes. I suppose it is because they don’t know what work is, and because they have always led selfish and protected lives. They haven’t the bigness of men—the love of fair-play.”