"Oh, that! Ah, yes--yes, quite so. I thought it was that." Nigel looked knowing, and shook his head wisely.

Under this treatment the young Italian became very animated.

"You were right! You see, it is ze expansion of coloured forms in s.p.a.ce, combined with the co-penetration of plastic ma.s.ses which forms what we call futurism."

"Oh yes, of course," said Nigel. "It would be. I mean to say--well!--almost anyone would guess that, wouldn't they?"

Semolini turned to Bertha, talking more and more quickly, and gesticulating with a little piece of bread and b.u.t.ter in his right hand.

"It is ze entire liberation from the laws of logical perspective that makes movement--the Orphic cubism--if you will allow me to say so!"

"Oh, certainly," smiled Bertha. "_Do_ say so!"

"Orphic cubism! I say! Isn't that a bit strong before a lady?" murmured Nigel.

Semolini laughed heartily without understanding a word, and continued to address himself to Bertha, whose eyes looked sympathetic. "It is painting, pure painting--painting new ma.s.ses with elements borrowed chiefly from the reality of mental vision!" cried the artist.

"Funny! Just what I was going to say!" said Nigel.

Bertha contented herself with encouraging smiles.

The young Italian was due to lecture on his views, and had to leave. At least three appointments were made with him, none of which Nigel had the slightest intention of keeping--to "go into the matter more thoroughly"--then Semolini vanished, charmed with his reception.

"Good heavens! will someone take me away and serve me up on a cold plate?" said Nigel, directly he had gone. "Look here, Bertha, is the chap off his head, a fraud, or serious?"

"Awfully serious. Are you going to see him to look into the matter?"

"I _think_ not," said Nigel, "at least I don't want to see his pictures, face to face, until I've insured my life. I must think of my widow and the children."

Here Nigel's young brother, Charlie, arrived. He was a slimmer, younger, but less good-looking edition of Nigel. He had just come down from Oxford, was pleasant, gentle, and appeared to be trying to repress a natural inclination to be a nut. He called on Bertha in the hope of seeing Madeline.

"I say, the Futurist chap has just been here," said Nigel to Charlie.

"Good! What's he like?"

"A little bit of all right. Frightfully fascinating, as girls say," said Nigel.

"He's not so bad," said Bertha mildly.

"Isn't he? I've seen the pictures. But what _is_ he like? The sort of chap you'd like to be seen with?" asked the young man.

"Well--not acutely," replied Nigel.

"Very dark, is he? quite black?"

"Yes."

"Good teeth?"

"Yes, several."

"Clean-shaven?"

"Not very."

There was a pause.

"But is he really an Italian?" asked Charlie.

"Shouldn't think so," said Nigel carelessly.

"What then?" asked Bertha, laughing.

"Scotch, probably."

"Very likely, if he's clever. They say all the clever people come from Scotland," Charlie remarked.

"And the cleverer they are, the sooner they come, I suppose," said Bertha. "Fancy the MacFuturist in a kilt!"

"But where does he come from ... where does he really live?" continued Charlie, who seemed to have a special, suspicious curiosity on the subject.

"Rapallo," said Bertha.

"Where's that?"

"The first turning to the left on the map as you go to Monte Carlo,"

said Nigel.

"But what _did_ he say--was he very odd and peculiar?"

"Oh, he carried on like one o'clock about Futurism," said Bertha.

"I thought every moment would be my next," said Nigel.

"What nonsense you're both talking," said Bertha.

"Yes, and if Charlie thinks he's going to sit me out by asking questions, he's jolly well mistaken," Nigel said. "Look here, old chap, Bertha's going out. I know she wants to get into her glad raiment. I'll drop you."

"Right-o!" said Charlie, jumping up.

They took their leave. Bertha looked amused.

CHAPTER VII

RUSSIAN BALLET