Being an individualist, a man who had always depended upon himself, Canterton had very little of the social sensitiveness that looks cautiously to the right and to the left before taking a certain path. All his grown life, from his University days onwards, he had been dealing¹ with big problems, birth, growth, decay, the eternal sacrament of sex, the beauty of earth’s flowering. His vision went deep and far. His life had been so full of the fascination² of his work that he had never been much of a social animal, as the social animal is understood in a country community. He observed trifles that were stupendously significant in the world of growth, but he had no mind for the social trifles round him. Had he had less brawn³, less virility⁴, less humour, it is possible that he would have been nothing more than an erudite fool, one of those pathetic figures, respected for its knowledge and pitied for its sappiness.  
Canterton could convince men, and this was because he had long ago become a conviction to himself. It was not a self-conscious conviction, and that was why it had such mastery. It never occurred to him to think about the discretions and the formalities of life. If a thing seemed good to do, he did it; if it seemed bad, he never gave it a second thought. His men believed in him with an instinctive⁵ faith that would not suffer contradiction, and had Canterton touched tar⁶, they would have sworn that the tar was the better for it, and Canterton’s hands clean. He was so big, so direct, so just, so ready to smile and see the humour of everything. And he was as clean-minded as his child Lynette, and no more conscious than she was of the little meannesses and dishonourable curiosities that make most men and nearly all women hypocrites.
 
Canterton’s eyes were open; but he saw only that which his long vision had taught him to see, and not the things that are focused by smaller people. That an idea seemed fine, and admirable, and good, was sufficient for him. He had not cultivated the habit of asking himself what other people might think. That was why such a man as Canterton may be so dangerous to himself and to others when he starts to do some big and unusual thing.
 
He knew now that he loved Eve Carfax. It was like the sudden rising of some enchanted⁷ island out of the sea, magical yet real, nor was he a gross beast to break down the boughs⁸ for the fruit and to crush the flowers for their perfumes. He had the atmosphere of a fine mind, and his scheme of values was different from the scheme of values recognised by more ordinary men. Perfumes, colours, beautiful outlines had spiritual and mystical meanings. He was not Pagan and not Christian⁹, but a blend of all that was best in both.
 
To him this enchanted island had risen out of the sea, and floated, dew-drenched, in the pure light of the dawn. He saw no reason why he should bid so beautiful a thing sink back again and be lost under the waters. He had no desecrating¹⁰ impulses. Why should not two people look together at life with eyes that smiled and understood? They were harming no one, and they were transfiguring each other.
 
Canterton and his wife were dining alone, and for once he deliberately¹¹ chose to talk to her of his work, and of his future plans. Gertrude would listen perfunctorily, but he was determined¹² that she should listen. The intimate part of his life did not concern her, simply because she was no longer either in his personality or in his work. So little sympathy was there between them that they had never succeeded in rising to a serious quarrel.
 
“I am taking Miss Carfax into the business. I thought you might like to know.”
 
So dead was her personal pride in all that was male in him, that she did not remember to be jealous.
 
“That ought to be a great opportunity for the girl.”
 
“I shall benefit as much as she will. She has a very remarkable¹³ gift, just something I felt the need of and could not find.”
 
“Then she is quite a discovery?”
 
Canterton watched his wife’s face and saw no clouding of its complacency.
 
“She will be a very great help in many ways.”
 
“I see. You will make her a kind of fashion-plate artist to produce new designs.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“I had thought of doing something for the girl. I had suggested to her that she might paint miniatures.”
 
“I think I shall keep her pretty busy.”
 
“I have only spoken to her once or twice, and she struck me as rather reserved, and stiff. I suppose she and Lynette——”
 
“She and Lynette get on wonderfully.”
 
“So Miss Vance told me. And, of course, that black frock——I hope she doesn’t spoil the child.”
 
“Not a bit. She does her good.”
 
“Lynette wants someone with plenty of common sense to discipline her. I think Miss Vance is really excellent.”
 
“A very reliable young woman.”
 
“She’s not too sentimental¹⁵ and emotional.”
 
They had finished dessert, and Gertrude Canterton went straight to her desk to write some of those innumerable letters that took up such a large part of her life. Letter-writing was one of her methods of self-expression, and her busy audacity¹⁶ was never to be repelled¹⁷. She wrote to an infinite number of charitable institutions for their literature; to authors for autograph copies of their books to sell at bazaars¹⁸; to actors for their signatures and photographs; to cartoonists for some sketch¹⁹ or other on which money might be raised for some charitable purpose; to tradesmen for free goods, offering them her patronage²⁰ and a fine advertisement on some stall.
 
Canterton did not wait for coffee, but lit a pipe and strolled out into the garden, and walking up and down in a state of wonder, tried to make himself realise that he and Gertrude were man and wife.
 
Had the conversation really taken place? Had they exchanged those cold commonplaces, those absurd phrases that should have meant so much? Had he known Gertrude less well, he might have been touched by the appearance of the limitless faith she had in him, by her blind and serene²¹ confidence that was not capable of being disturbed. But he knew her better than that. He was hardly so much as a shadow in her life, and when a second shadow appeared beside hers she did not notice it. She seemed to have no sense of possession, no sexual pride. Her mental poise²² was like some people’s idea of heaven, a place of beautiful and boundless²³ indifference²⁴ misnamed “sac............