He picked up the portfolios and drawing-books which littered the seat, shoved them aside and sat. Timothy finished the bacon, set it down and made coffee from the long-boiling kettle. Frampton, meanwhile, picked up a drawing-book and turned the pages. It was filled with charming little, fantastic drawings of a children’s world of tiny people. The things were gay and delightful.
“What the devil have you been playing at?” Frampton asked.
“I say,” Timothy said, “you aren’t supposed to know about those. Those are private.”
“They are not private,” Frampton said. “Why haven’t you shown me these? Don’t you see, that these are the things you ought to be doing? You can do birds pretty well, but so can half a dozen men, and a lot better than you. But no one can do this. This is the real you. Why the devil didn’t you show me these?”
Timothy blushed and was pleased, but looked a bit startled.
“I used to do them for Margaret sometimes, and she liked them. Lately, I’ve been doing them again for the Boy Scouts who come here; they all like them.”
“Well, you come up to lunch, and we’ll discuss the future. These things are the real thing, and put your nature studies behind the wainscot.”
“About this Russian cousin,” Timothy asked; “you said it was a she. Does she speak English?”
“Yes. She’s like Margaret.”
“All right. I suppose I’d better shave.”
Frampton stayed talking with Timothy for a while, then turned back to the house.
“This cousin of yours is a ballet dancer,” he said, as he left. “She has four friends with her, so you’d certainly better shave; and put on a tie, if that isn’t asking too much.”
“I’ve got a fine tie somewhere,” Timothy said.
Frampton went back to the house wondering what had happened, while he had been at Spirr. He supposed that the Sorya would have looked at the photographs and then, perhaps, been moved to look at the portraits, and then, having realised how like she was to Margaret, and her effect upon himself, might have come to some decision about it. Anyhow, she would know now that he could not look upon her without being deeply moved, and moved in a way which most women would resent, not for any quality in herself, but for her resemblance to someone dead. He had pointed this out to her as delicately as he could; if she had fled, while he was away, he would understand.
But she had not fled. She was on the terrace, beside the long pond, when he came in. He had the feeling that she was waiting for him. She was looking at him with interest and some pity.
“Zeila Aranowski was saying that you have a theatre here,” she said. “Is that true, or was it something that she didn’t quite understand?”
“No, it’s true. There it is, yonder. Would you care to see it? You’d better get a wrap, while I get the keys; you know how chill an unused theatre can be.”
“I do know that,” she said.
He led the way to the theatre.
“Are any of your sisters down?” he asked.
She thought not. They were having a long lie; later in the day they would have a practice, but for the moment they were enjoying life. He opened the door and let her into the green room and thence to the stage.
“This is the stage,” he said. “It is rather long and narrow, and steeply raked. Will you wait a moment, while I go to my seat? I want to see you make your debut.”
He vaulted down into the house and took his seat. With inimitable grace, she danced down to the footlights, and made the dancer’s adorable reverence to the imaginary audience.
“I’m afraid the stage is too much raked for a ballet,” he said.
“Not at all; it’s only the back that’s raked,” she said. “This space here, the acting area, is barely raked at all. The backs of these old stages were used for display and what the old writers call perspectives, which gave illusions of distance. You could give adorable small ballets, with a few dancers and music by Gluck and Mozart. It is a wonderful place, and so beautiful.”
“It’s luck to have escaped the Gothic revivalist,” he said. “He would have pulled it down and put up black and white rafters and pierced a few loop-holes for bows. But just when the Gothic chap was in charge, in matters of taste, it was in use as a kennel for hounds, and later as a fowl-house. It is pretty much as it was at first now, I think.”
“But who built it?”
“One of these mad English,” he said.
“And have you given many performances here?” she asked.
“I? No,” he said. “There are no performers, and worse still, no audience here.”
“I should have thought you would spend all your time here, giving performances.”
“Not I. I spend my time inventing things that’ll blast people dead without danger to the blaster. I make death swift for the receiver and comfortable to the giver. Anything that shortens war and limits the rule of generals in human affairs, that’s the kind of thing I study. You said, a moment ago, that you will all have to do a practice or exercises some time to-day.”
“We shall have to go in to Stubbington for that,” she said, “to be with the others.”