Philip’s friend came up-stairs.  He was very friendly; in fact Alice and I thought him forward, but he was several years older than Philip, who seemed proud of the acquaintance.  Perhaps Alice and I were biased by the fact that he spoilt our pleasant morning.  He was one of those people who look at everything one has been working at with such unintelligent eyes that their indifference ought not to dishearten one; and yet it does.

“It’s for our private theatricals,” said Philip, as Mr. Clinton’s amazed stare passed from our paint-covered selves to the new scene.

“My cousins in Dublin have private theatricals,” said Mr. Clinton.  “My uncle has built on a room for the theatre.  All the fittings and scenes come from London, and the first costumiers in Dublin send in all the dresses and everything that is required on the afternoon before the performance.”

“Oh, we’re in a much smaller way,” said Philip; “but I’ve some properties here that don’t look bad by candlelight.”  But Mr. Clinton had come up to the cask, and was staring at it and us.  I knew by the way Alice got quietly up, and shook some chips with a decided air out of her apron, that she did not like being stared at.  But her movement only drew Mr. Clinton’s especial attention.

“You’ll catch it from your grandmamma for making such a mess of your clothes, won’t you?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” said Alice, with so perfect an air of not having heard him that he was about to repeat the question, when she left the nursery with the exact exit which she had made as a Discreet Princess repelling unwelcome advances in last year’s play.

I was afraid of an outburst from Philip, and said in hasty civility, “This is a cave we are making.”

“They’d a splendid cave at Covent Garden last Christmas,” said Mr. Clinton.  “It covered half the stage.  An enormously tall man dressed in cloth of silver stood in the entrance, and waved a spear ten or twelve feet long over his head.  A fairy was let down above that, so you may be sure the cave was pretty big.”

“Oh, here’s the dragon,” said Philip, who had been rummaging in the property box.  “He’s got a fiery tail.”

“They were quite the go in pantomimes a few years ago,” said Mr. Clinton, yawning.  “My uncle had two or three—­bigger than that, of course.”

Philip saw that his friend was not interested in amateur property-making, and changed the subject.

“What have you been doing this morning?” said he.

“I drove here with my father, who had got to pass your gates.  I say, there’s splendid shooting on the marsh now.  I want you to come out with me, and we’ll pot a wild duck or two.”

“I’ve no gun,” said Philip, and to soften the statement added, “there’s no one here to go out with.”

“I’ll go out with you.  And I say, we could just catch the train back to the town, and if you’ll come and lunch with us, we’ll go out a bit this afternoon and look round.  But you must get a gun.”