The local committee of a society for the propagation of something or other had taken possession of Canterton’s library, and Mrs. Brocklebank was the dominant¹ lady. The amount of business done at these meetings was infinitesimal, for Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton were like battleships that kept up a perpetual booming of big guns, hardly troubling to notice the splutter of suggestions fired by the lesser² vessels³. The only person on the committee who had any idea of business was little Miss Whiffen, the curate’s sister. She was one of those women who are all profile, a busy, short-sighted, argumentative creature who did her best to prevent Mrs. Brocklebank and Gertrude Canterton from claiming the high seas as their own. She fussed about like a torpedo⁴ boat, launching her torpedoes⁵, and scoring hits that should have blown most battleships out of the water. But Mrs. Brocklebank was unsinkable, and Gertrude Canterton was protected by the net of her infinite self-satisfaction. Whatever Miss Whiffen said, they just kept on booming.  
Sometimes they squabbled politely, while old Lady Marchendale, who was deaf, sat and dozed⁶ in her chair. They were squabbling this afternoon over a problem that, strange to say, had something to do with the matter in hand. Miss Whiffen had contradicted Mrs. Brocklebank, and so they proceeded to argue.
 
“Every thinking person ought to realise that there are a million more women than men in the country.”
 
“I wasn’t questioning that.”
 
“Therefore the female birth rate must be higher than the male.”
 
Miss Whiffen retorted with figures. She was always attacking Mrs. Brocklebank with statistics.
 
“If you look up the records you will find that there are about a hundred and five boys born to every hundred girls.”
 
“That does not alter the situation.”
 
“Oh, of course not.”
 
“This scheme of helping⁷ marriageable young women to emigrate——”
 
Mrs. Brocklebank paused, and turned the big gun on Miss Whiffen.
 
“I said marriageable young women! Have you any objection to the term, Miss Whiffen?”
 
“Oh, not in the least! But does it follow that, because they marry when they get to the Colonies——”
 
“What follows?”
 
“Why, children.”
 
“Marriages are more fruitful in a young country.”
 
“But are they? When my married sister was home from Australia last time, she told me——”
 
Gertrude Canterton joined in.
 
“Yes, it’s just the prevailing⁸ selfishness, the decadence⁹ of home life.”
 
“Men are so much more selfish than they used to be.”
 
“I think the women are as bad. And, of course, the question of population——”
 
Old Lady Marchendale, who had dozed off in her arm-chair by the window, woke up, caught a few fragmental words, and created a digression.
 
“They ought to be made to have them—by law!”
 
“But, my dear Lady Marchendale——”
 
“I see her ladyship’s point.”
 
“Every girl ought to have her own room.”
 
“Of course, most certainly! But in the matter of emigration——”
 
“Emigration? What has emigration to do with the Shop Girls’ Self Help Society?”
 
“My dear Lady Marchendale, we are discussing the scheme for sending young women to the Colonies.”
 
“Bless me, I must have been asleep. I remember. Look at that lad of yours, Mrs. Canterton, out there in the garden. I’m sure he has cut his hand.”
 
Lady Marchendale might be rather deaf, but she had unusually sharp eyes, and Gertrude Canterton, rising in her chair, saw one of the lads employed in the home garden running across the lawn, and wrapping a piece of sacking round his left hand and wrist.
 
She hurried to the window.
 
“What is the matter, Pennyweight?”
 
“Cut m’ wrist, mum, swappin’ the hedge.”
 
“How careless! I will come and see what wants doing.”
 
There had been First Aid classes in the village. In fact, Gertrude Canterton had started them. Miss Whiffen and several members of the committee followed her into the garden and surrounded the lad Pennyweight, who looked white and scared.
 
“Take that dirty sacking away, Pennyweight! Don’t you know such things are full of microbes?”
 
“It’s bleedin’ so bad, mum.”
 
“Let me see.”
 
The lad obeyed her, uncovering his wrist gingerly, his face flinching¹¹. The inner swathings of sacking were being soaked with blood from the steady pumping of a half-severed artery¹².
 
Miss Whiffen made a little sibilant sound.
 
“Sssf, sssf—dear, dear!”
 
“A nasty cut.”
 
Pennyweight hesitated between restive¹³ fright and awe¹⁴ of all these gentlewomen.
 
“Hadn’t I better go t’ Mr. Lavender, mum? It does bleed.”
 
“Nonsense, Pennyweight! Miss Ronan, would you mind going in and ringing for the housekeeper¹⁵? Tell her I want some clean linen¹⁶, and some hot water and boracic acid.”
 
Miss Whiffen was interested but alarmed.
 
“It’s a cut artery. We ought to compress the brachial artery.”
 
“Isn’t it the femoral?”
 
“No, that’s in the leg. You squeeze the arm just——”
 
“Exactly. Along the inside seam of the sleeve.”
 
“But he has no coat on.”
 
This was a poser. Gertrude Canterton looked annoyed.
 
“Where’s your coat, Pennyweight?”
 
“Down by t’ hedge, mum.”
 
“If he had his coat on we should know just where to compress the artery.”
 
No one noticed Canterton and Lynette till the man and the child were within five yards of the group.
 
“What’s the matter?”
 
The lad faced round sharply, appeared to disentangle himself from the women, and to turn instinctively¹⁷ to Canterton.
 
“Cut m’ wrist, sir, with the swap¹⁰ ’ook.”
 
“We must stop that bleeding.”
 
He pulled out a big bandanna¹⁸ handkerchief, passed it round the lad’s arm, knotted it, and took a folding foot-rule from his pocket.
 
“Hold that just there, Bob.”
 
He made another knot over the rule on the inside of the arm, and then twisted the extemporised tourniquet¹⁹ till the lad winced²⁰.
 
“Hurt?”
 
“No, sir.”
 
“That’s stopped it. Gertrude, send one of the maids down to the office and tell Griggs to ride down on his bicycle for Kearton. Feel funny, Bob?”
 
“Just a bit, sir.”
 
“Lie down flat in the shade there. I’ll get you a glass of grog.”
 
Lynette, solemn and sympathetic, had stood watching her father, disassociating herself from her mother and Miss Whiffen, and the members of the committee.
 
“Wasn’t it a good thing I found daddy, Bob?”
 
“It was, miss.”
 
“The old ladies might have let you bleed to death, mightn’t they?”
 
Bob looked sheepish, and Gertrude Canterton called Lynette away.
 
“Go to the nursery, Lynette. It is tea time.”
 
Lynette chose to enter the house by the library window, and, finding old Lady Marchendale sitting there in the arm-chair, put up her face to be kissed. She liked Lady Marchendale because she had pretty white hair, and eyes that twinkled.
 
“Did you see Bob’s bloody²¹ hand?”
 
“What, my dear?”
 
“Did you see Bob’s bloody hand?”
 
“I can’t quite hear, dear.”
 
Lynette put her mouth close to Lady Marchendale’s ear, and spoke²² with emphasis.
 
“Did—you—see—Bob’s—bloody—hand?”
 
“Lynette, you must not use such words!”
 
Gertrude Canterton stood at the open window, and Lady Marchendale was laughing.
 
“What words, mother?”
 
“Such words as ‘bloody.’”
 
“But it was bloody, mother.”
 
“Bless the child, how fresh! Come and give me another kiss, dear.”
 
Lynette gave it with enthusiasm.
 
“I do like your white hair.”
 
“It is not so pretty as yours, my dear. Now, run along. We are very busy.”
 
She watched Lynette go, nodding her head at her and smiling.
 
“I am so sorry, Lady Marchendale. The child is such a little savage²³.”
 
“I think she’s a pet. You don’t want to make a little prig of her, do you?”
 
“She’s so undisciplined.”
 
“Oh, fudge! What you call being ‘savage,’ is being healthy and natural. You don’t want to make the child a woman before she’s been a child.”
 
The gong rang for tea.
 
Eve was painting in the rosery when Mrs. Brocklebank persuaded the members of the committee that she—and therefore they—wanted to see Mr. Canterton’s roses. It was a purely²⁴ perfunctory pilgrimage, so far as Gertrude Canterton was concerned, and her voice struck a note of passive disapproval²⁵.
 
“I think there is much too much time and money wasted upon flowers.”
 
“Oh, Mrs. Canterton! But isn’t this just sweet!”
 
“I don’t know very much about roses, but I believe my husband’s are supposed to be wonderful.”
 
She sighted Eve, stared, and diverged²⁶ towards her down a side path, smiling with thin graciousness.
 
“Miss Carfax?”
 
Eve did not offer to explain her presence. She supposed that Gertrude Canterton knew all about her husband’s book, and the illustrations that were needed.
 
“You are making a study of flowers?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“That’s right. I hope you will find plenty of material here.”
 
“Mr. Canterton was kind enough to let me come in and see what I could do.”
 
“Exactly. May I see?”
 
She minced²⁷ round behind Eve, and looked over the girl’s shoulder at the sketch²⁸ she had on her lap.
 
“That’s quite nice—quite nice! But what a lot of colour you have put into it.”
 
“There is rather a lot of colour in the garden itself.”
 
“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, hairpins²⁹, and scent³⁰. 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 solvent³¹ 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.”
 
Perhaps she put her protest crudely, but Mrs. Brocklebank showed hauteur³².
 
“Indeed!”
 
“I believe Mr. Canterton wants that flower.”
 
“What is it, Philippa?”
 
Mrs. Canterton had returned, and came wriggling³³ and edging behind Eve.
 
“There is rather a nice bud here, and I was going to steal it, but this young lady——”
 
“Miss Carfax!”
 
Eve felt her face flushing.
 
“I believe Mr. Canterton wants that flower.”
 
“Nonsense. Why, there are hundreds here. Take it, my dear, by all means, take it.”
 
“I don’t want to interfere³⁴ with——”
 
“I insist. James is absolutely foolish about his flowers. He won’t let me send a maid down with a basket. And we had such a quarrel once about the orchid³⁵ house.”
 
Eve turned and went back to her stool. Mrs. Brocklebank’s eyes followed her with solemn disapproval.
 
“That’s a rather forward young person.”
 
“Do take the flower, Philippa.”
 
“I will.”
 
And the rose was tucked into Mrs. Brocklebank’s belt.