Candida

get any money for it until the seven days were up; and he was too shy to ask for credit. Oh, he’s a dear boy! We are very fond of him. Burgess Pretending to belittle the aristocracy, but with his eyes gleaming. Hm, I thort you wouldn’t git a piorr’s (peer’s) nevvy visitin’ in Victoria Park unless he were a bit of a flat. Looking again at the picture. Of course I don’t ’old with that pictur, Candy; but still it’s a ’igh class, fust rate work of art: I can see that. Be sure you hintroduce me to him, Candy. He looks at his watch anxiously. I can only stay about two minutes. Morell comes back with Eugene, whom Burgess contemplates moist-eyed with enthusiasm. He is a strange, shy youth of eighteen, slight, effeminate, with a delicate childish voice, and a hunted, tormented expression and shrinking manner that show the painful sensitiveness that very swift and acute apprehensiveness produces in youth, before the character has grown to its full strength. Yet everything that his timidity and frailty suggests is contradicted by his face. He is miserably irresolute, does not know where to stand or what to do with his hands and feet, is afraid of Burgess, and would run away into solitude if he dared; but the very intensity with which he feels a perfectly commonplace position shows great nervous force, and his nostrils and mouth show a fiercely petulant wilfulness, as to the quality of which his great imaginative eyes and fine brow are reassuring. He is so entirely uncommon as to be almost unearthly; and to prosaic people there is something noxious in this unearthliness, just as to poetic people there is something angelic in it. His dress is anarchic. He wears an old blue serge jacket, unbuttoned over a woollen lawn tennis shirt, with a silk handkerchief for a cravat, trousers matching the jacket, and brown canvas shoes. In these garments he has apparently lain in the heather and waded through the waters; but there is no evidence of his having ever brushed them. As he catches sight of a stranger on entering, he stops, and edges along the wall on the opposite side of the room. Morell As he enters. Come along: you can spare us quarter of an hour, at all events. This is my father-in-law, Mr. Burgess⁠—Mr. Marchbanks. Marchbanks Nervously backing against the bookcase. Glad to meet you, sir. Burgess Crossing to him with great heartiness, whilst Morell joins Candida at the fire. Glad to meet you, I’m shore, Mr. Morchbanks. Forcing him to shake hands. ’Ow do you find yoreself this weather? ’Ope you ain’t lettin’ James put no foolish ideas into your ’ed? Marchbanks Foolish ideas! Oh, you mean Socialism. No. Burgess That’s right. Again looking at his watch. Well, I must go now: there’s no ’elp for it. Yo’re not comin’ my way, are you, Mr. Morchbanks? Marchbanks Which way is that? Burgess Victawriar Pork station. There’s a city train at 12.25. Morell Nonsense. Eugene will stay to lunch with us, I expect. Marchbanks Anxiously excusing himself. No⁠—I⁠—I⁠— Burgess Well, well, I shan’t press you: I bet you’d rather lunch with Candy. Some night, I ’ope, you’ll come and dine with me at my club, the Freeman Founders in Nortn Folgit. Come, say you will. Marchbanks Thank you, Mr. Burgess. Where is Norton Folgate⁠—down in Surrey, isn’t it? Burgess, inexpressibly tickled, begins to splutter with laughter. Candida Coming to the rescue. You’ll lose your train, papa, if you don’t go at once. Come back in the afternoon and tell Mr. Marchbanks where to find the club. Burgess Roaring with glee. Down in Surrey⁠—har, har! that’s not a bad one. Well, I never met a man as didn’t know Nortn Folgit before. Abashed at his own noisiness. Goodbye, Mr. Morchbanks: I know yo’re too ’ighbred to take my pleasantry in bad part. He again offers his hand. Marchbanks Taking it with a nervous jerk. Not at all. Burgess Bye, bye, Candy. I’ll look in again later on. So long, James. Morell Must you go? Burgess Don’t stir. He goes out with unabated heartiness. Morell Oh, I’ll see you out. He follows him out. Eugene stares after them apprehensively, holding his breath until Burgess disappears. Candida Laughing. Well, Eugene. He turns with a start and comes eagerly towards her, but stops irresolutely as he meets her amused look. What do you think of my father? Marchbanks I⁠—I hardly know him yet. He seems to be a very nice old gentleman. Candida With gentle irony. And you’ll go to the Freeman Founders to dine with him, won’t you? Marchbanks Miserably, taking it quite seriously. Yes, if it will please you. Candida Touched. Do you know, you are a very nice boy, Eugene, with all your queerness. If you had laughed at my father I shouldn’t have minded; but I like you ever so much better for being nice to him. Marchbanks Ought I to have laughed? I noticed that he said something funny; but I am so ill at ease with strangers; and I never can see a joke! I’m very sorry. He sits down on the sofa, his elbows on his knees and his temples between his fists, with an expression of hopeless suffering. Candida Bustling him goodnaturedly. Oh, come! You great baby, you! You are worse than usual this morning. Why were you so melancholy as we came along in the cab? Marchbanks Oh, that was nothing. I was wondering how much I ought to give the cabman. I know it’s utterly silly; but you don’t know how dreadful such things are to me⁠—how I shrink from having to deal with strange people. Quickly and reassuringly. But it’s all right. He beamed all over and touched his hat when Morell gave him two shillings. I was on the point of offering him ten. Candida laughs heartily. Morell comes back with a