He is a tallish, square, personable
man of forty-seven, with a well-coloured, jowly, fullish face,
marked under the eyes, which have very small pupils and a good deal
of light in them. His bearing has force and importance, as of a man
accustomed to rising and ownerships, sure in his opinions, and not
lacking in geniality when things go his way. Essentially a
Midlander. His wife, a woman of forty-one, of ivory tint, with a
thin, trim figure and a face so strangely composed as to be almost
like a mask (essentially from Jersey) is putting a nib into a
pen-holder, and filling an inkpot at the writing-table.
As the curtain rises CAMILLE enters with a rather broken-down
cardboard box containing flowers. She is a young woman with a good
figure, a pale face, the warm brown eyes and complete poise of a
Frenchwoman. She takes the box to MRS BUILDER.
MRS BUILDER. The blue vase, please, Camille.
CAMILLE fetches a vase. MRS BUILDER puts the flowers into the vase.
CAMILLE gathers up the debris; and with a glance at BUILDER goes
out.
BUILDER. Glorious October! I ought to have a damned good day's shooting
with Chantrey tomorrow.
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