Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, August 1, 1891 by Various
page 16 of 47 (34%)
page 16 of 47 (34%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
_Culch._ (_who detests humming_). By the way, I wish you hadn't been
in such a hurry to come straight on. I particularly wanted to stop at Bruges, and see the Memlings. _Podb._ I do like that! For a fellow who wants to keep out of people's way! They'd have wanted you to stay to lunch and dinner, most likely. _Culch._ (_raising his eyebrows_). Hardly, my dear fellow--they're pictures, as it happens. _Podb._ (_unabashed_). Oh, are they? Any way, you've fetched up your average here. Weren't there enough in the Museum for you? _Culch._ (_pityingly_). You surely wouldn't call the collection here exactly representative of the best period of Flemish Art? _Podb._ If you ask me, I should call it a simply footling show--but you were long enough over it. (CULCHARD _shudders slightly, and presently pats his pockets_.) What's up now? Nothing gone wrong with the works, eh? _Culch._ (_with dignity_). No--I was merely feeling for my note-book. I had a sudden idea for a sonnet, that's all. _Podb._ Ah, you shouldn't have touched those mussels they gave us with the sole. Have a nip of this cognac, and you'll soon be all right. [_CULCHARD scribbles in lofty abstraction; PODBURY hums; Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER, and his daughter, MAUD S. TROTTER, come out by the glass door of the Salon de Lecture, and seat |
|