[Arthur is far too polite to point out a lady's fluster and for that she is immeasurably grateful, skirting the edges of the room while he pours the tea. Rest would do him good, she thinks, particularly if he's got that cold that's been going around, or the 'flu that's struck the curator. She hums thoughtfully as he arranges their cups, but finds she cannot quite drag herself away from all the portraits.
Some possess a single subject, the majority are small groups and pairs of people, smiles and stern expressions alike. Some are from safari, with natural compositions and genial ease radiating from the figures - others are stiff and uncomfortable, with bright eyes and sharp brows. Oddly enough, as she studies them Evelyn realises they are all comprised of a similar party member, a young man of varying ages with a hawk-like gaze.
It would be less strange if the images were labeled in such a way that suggested the fellow might be a close cousin of Arthur's, but the man (boy?) clustered with his mates in the trench, mouth a thin line of upset, is unmistakably him. Having seen him send withering glares to museum docents a number of times Evelyn would say with relative certainty that the young man in the uniform is Arthur Kirkland, but then, so is the one in the Daguerreotype, the tintype, the small painting dated to 1753. The resemblance is uncanny.
...Impossible, though, when he isn't that much older than she.]
Hm?
[She turns then, realising belatedly with his approach that they are altogether too close for propriety, and while she doesn't really mind she'd hate for him to feel awkward about it. Reluctantly, Evelyn pats his forearm in distraction and moves to the sitting arrangement, sending the framed photographs a vague, backwards glance.]
That young man looks exactly like you, [she observes, seating herself and sliding her fingers over the teacup. Evelyn huffs a light laugh.] Which is utterly absurd, since it appears it was taken in 1916 or 17. Is he family?
no subject
Some possess a single subject, the majority are small groups and pairs of people, smiles and stern expressions alike. Some are from safari, with natural compositions and genial ease radiating from the figures - others are stiff and uncomfortable, with bright eyes and sharp brows. Oddly enough, as she studies them Evelyn realises they are all comprised of a similar party member, a young man of varying ages with a hawk-like gaze.
It would be less strange if the images were labeled in such a way that suggested the fellow might be a close cousin of Arthur's, but the man (boy?) clustered with his mates in the trench, mouth a thin line of upset, is unmistakably him. Having seen him send withering glares to museum docents a number of times Evelyn would say with relative certainty that the young man in the uniform is Arthur Kirkland, but then, so is the one in the Daguerreotype, the tintype, the small painting dated to 1753. The resemblance is uncanny.
...Impossible, though, when he isn't that much older than she.]
Hm?
[She turns then, realising belatedly with his approach that they are altogether too close for propriety, and while she doesn't really mind she'd hate for him to feel awkward about it. Reluctantly, Evelyn pats his forearm in distraction and moves to the sitting arrangement, sending the framed photographs a vague, backwards glance.]
That young man looks exactly like you, [she observes, seating herself and sliding her fingers over the teacup. Evelyn huffs a light laugh.] Which is utterly absurd, since it appears it was taken in 1916 or 17. Is he family?