"Yes. Who is he?"
"He does a little carpentering, and is to appear in the drama. He is now painting the scenery."
"Useful man," thought the girl, and almost forgave him for adopting such a nom-de-théatre.
Wending their way to a tiny outhouse, they there found this valuable personage busily occupied in mixing paint. He turned round at their entry, and for the second time that hour Evarne with difficulty suppressed a gasp. The entire person of Charles Stuart, as far as could be seen, was so covered with black hair that at first glance he resembled a monkey. Quantities of fringe concealed his forehead, falling even over his massive eyebrows. Although quite young still, he not only had a heavy moustache, but a beard and whiskers that lost themselves in the thick mop covering his cranium, while his open shirt displayed a chest like unto a doormat. As he transferred the dripping paint-brush to his left hand and advanced towards Evarne with his hairy right arm outstretched, the girl felt rather like ignobly bolting away. What very extraordinary people she had fallen amidst, to be sure!
But she stood her ground, and spoke to the man as if he had been a natural-looking human being.
"What are you painting now, Mr. Stuart? I should like to see what you have done, if I may."
"Show Miss Stornway what you are working at, Charlie," suggested Mr. Punter, and as they all went out into the garden he explained—
"Stuart was for years the head scene-painter at one of the leading London theatres. You see, we mean to spare no expense."
Evarne found herself wishing that she had not been apparently the one exception in this determination concerning lavish expenditure.
Hanging against the wall of the house were three scenes—one a cottage interior, another a wild glen, and the third, a rustic landscape, scarcely commenced.