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Mr. de Lara's latest production, 'Sanga' , does not seem to have sustained the promise of 'Messaline. Another composer whom necessity has driven to ally his music to a foreign libretto is Mr. Herbert Bunning, whose opera 'La Princesse Osra' was produced at Covent Garden in 1902. Mr.
Look sensible, man. Pull yourself together." Lawrence entered, bringing log with him from the stairs. His big, thick-set body was so reassuring, so healthy in its sturdiness, so strange a contrast to the trembling figure against the wall that Olva felt an immense relief. "You know Bunning, Lawrence?" "How do?"
I told you if any one suspected it would make it so hard " "Look here, Bunning, perhaps it will help you if you know the way that I'm feeling about it. I'll try and explain. All these days there's something in me that's urging me to go out and confess." "Conscience," said Bunning solemnly. "No, it isn't conscience at all.
The afternoon of November 5 was thick with fog so that the shops were lighted early and every room was dim and unreal, and a sulphurous smell weighted the air. After "Hall" Olva came back to his room and found Bunning, his white face peering out of the foggy mist like a dull moon from clouds, waiting for him. All day there had hung about Olva heavy depression.
I won't be a nuisance I'll never talk if you don't want me to I'll do everything you tell me only let me come. You're the only person who's ever shown me what I might do. I might be of use if I were with you otherwise " "Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for anybody. One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise not to forget you.
Bunning watched him, apprehension and a sense of order struggling' with a desire for adventure. "They've gone to fetch the police. There'll be an awful row." There probably would be because that moment had at last been reached when authority was flung absolutely to the winds of heaven. The world seemed, in a moment, to have gone mad.
Through all the tangled confusion of his thoughts, through the fear and courage there ran this note-where was God? . . . God the only person to Whom he now could speak, because God knew. Might not this idiot of a Bunning have been shown the way to the mystery? "Yes," said Olva, smiling.
His words came in jerks. Olva crossed the room and stood looking down upon him. "No, Bunning, I'm perfectly well. . . . There's nothing the matter with me. My nerves have been a bit tried lately by this business, keeping it all alone, and it's a great relief to me to have told you." The fact forced itself upon Bunning's brain. At last in a husky whisper: "You . . . killed . . . Carfax?"
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the half-open door aroused Brent from these melancholy speculations; he turned to see Bunning coming back, attended by several men, and foremost among them, Hawthwaite, superintendent of the borough police, whom Brent had met once or twice on his previous visits to the town.
Again he stuck his finger into Bunning's ribs. "Make of what, says you!" he breathed. "Ay, to be sure! Why, of all this here coming up at night to the Moot Hall, and sitting, all alone, in that there Mayor's Parlour, not to be disturbed by nobody, whosomever! What's it all mean?" "No business of mine," replied Bunning. "Nor of anybody's but his own. That is, so far as I'm aware of. What about it?"
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