Brandon. Yes. But I’m afraid the folios were sold before he died. But there’s a run of the quartos, and a really amazing lot of Baconian stuff. At least, I’m told it’s very fine.
[Bell rings. Sabot quickly leaves room.
Sir Johnstone. Ah-ha. Bacon, my boy. That’s a special favourite of mine.
Leila. Of course, all this is too technical and peculiar!
Raglan. Yes—isn’t it?
Brandon. I expect Mrs. Debenham has learnt to put with this sort of thing, hasn’t she?
Mrs. Debenham. (Pause. She wakes up, and suddenly realises she is being addressed.) Oh, yes!
Leila. Of course, I’m too Philistine for words. Do go on. What about Bacon?
Sir Johnstone. I think we’d better try and restrain ourselves, my boy.
Leila. Oh no. Do go on. You must tell us about Bacon. Isn’t he the person who dashes round being Shakespeare, or something like that?
[Enter Rupert Cadell in doorway. He is of medium height and about twenty-nine. He is a little foppish in dress and appearance, and this impression is increased by the very exquisite walking-stick which he carries indoors as well as out. He is lame in the right leg. He is enormously affected in speech and carriage. He brings his words out not only as though he is infinitely weary of all things, but also as though articulation is causing him some definite physical pain which he is trying to circumvent by keeping his head and body perfectly still. His sentences are often involved, but nearly always syntactically complete. His affectation almost verges on effeminacy, and can be very irritating, but he has a very disarming habit, every now and again, of retrieving the whole thing with an extraordinarily frank, open and genial smile.
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