_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