Runcorn joined them, and the three Elder Statesmen, sipping their drinks, began to shake grizzled heads over the Outrage of the posters. Mr. Gurney put in some sharp comment which Stephen couldn’t hear, and Councillor Noakes snapped back at him; you could almost see the sparks fly. The Mayor, turning to John Handiman, said genially: “Well, John, I suppose your factory’s full of flat-footed policemen this morning, eh?” and John, looking straight at him, replied:

“That’s nothing. We’re expecting the bailiffs at any moment.”

There was an awkward silence during which Stephen in embarrassment glanced about the bar, and then forgot his embarrassment as he became fascinated by the assortment of faces. His glance travelled from John’s fine-drawn face to the Mayor’s kindly and puzzled one; from Florrie rising majestic behind the counter to Sir Almeric lounging upon it, and Mr. Gurney contemplating his umbrella-handle and thinking his thoughts; from Councillor Noakes who collected “little books printed in Paris” to those ardent young men, Robin elegant in a flowered waistcoat, Lance wearing his black eye with an air of You-be-damned; and as Stephen looked about him he was struck not for the first time by the infinite permutations and combinations of character which even a small town could afford. “What a rich hotch-potch,” he said to himself, “is there within these four walls now, and how it sizzles and steams and boils up like a witch’s cauldron!” He felt life swirling about him; man’s proud and angry dust was bestirring itself, the air was charged with emotions as it was charged with thunder; and in a flash he thought of his Festival as a sort of Frankenstein’s monster which perhaps would take command of those who were trying to create it.

The long silence was broken at last by the voice of Mr. Oxford as he resumed his history lesson. It was at this time of day—and Florrie could predict it almost to the minute— that Mr. Oxford became more and more pontifical, his voice boomed louder, and somehow he seemed to grow bigger, to swell like a great bullfrog. But conversely Timms dwindled away; his interjections became the merest echo; one felt that if the bar had remained open for another hour he would disappear altogether.

“Take”—said Mr. Oxford, as if he was reciting a recipe for some extravagant dish— “take Kings and Queens. Take Henry the Eighth—”

“Lots of wives,” said Timms almost in a whisper. “Chopped their heads off.”

“And that ain’t a bad tradition either,” said Mr. Oxford, laughing hugely as he slapped his fat thigh. And “’Dition” repeated Timms with a sort of midget’s giggle.

As he listened to them, Stephen suddenly had a mischievous impulse. For some inexplicable reason the ridiculous names of Odo and Dodo came into his head; and the longer he looked at Mr. Oxford and Timms the better those names seemed to fit them. But light-hearted mischief was a thing foreign to him, and even as he edged his way across the bar towards them he was appalled by what he did.

“Look, I’ve got a job for you two.”

“Want to have a little flutter?” said Mr. Oxford heartily.

“Not at the moment. You’ve been talking so much about history that I think you ought to take part in the Pageant.”

“What, us?”

“All you have to do is to walk on with a Holy Hermit. ‘Enter Odo and Dodo.’ And then you found the Abbey.”

“Ah, the Abbey.” Mr. Oxford’s finger sought the tower which loomed in the background of Robin’s poster. “Now that’s old, real old. Reeking of ’istory. ’Ow often, on my way down the street to do a little business at the Black Bear, ’ave I looked up at it and said to myself, ‘That’s a bit of old England, that is.’ ”

“’Dition,” said Timms automatically.

“Odo and Dodo, then?” said Stephen, glancing from one to the other, awe-stricken by his own folly.

Mr. Oxford heaved a long sententious sigh.

“Well, I will undertake it,” he said at last; in the very words, as it happened, of Bottom the weaver.

III

“Would You say it was cinegenic? ” asked Virginia, trying to keep her head still while Robin with his quick pencil made a series of jabs at the sketching-block on his knees.

“Would I say it was what?”

“Cinegenic. That means it takes well,” she added helpfully. “The photographer said it was ever so.”

“I wouldn’t know,” grinned Robin.