Podb. Of course. I’m not keen about getting to know people.  He had no end of a pretty daughter, though.  Mean to say you didn’t spot her?

[Illustration:  “Wanted to know if you were my Tutor!”]

Culch. If by “spotting” you mean—­was I aware of the existence of a very exuberant young person, with a most distressing American accent?  I can only say; that she made her presence sufficiently evident.  I confess she did not interest me to the point of speculating upon her relationship to anybody else.

Podb. Well—­if you come to that, I don’t know that I—­still, she was uncommonly—­(Happens to glance round, and lowers his voice.) Jove! she’s in the Reading-room, just behind us. (Hums, with elaborate carelessness.) La di deedle-lumpty—­loodle-oodle-loo—­

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 themselves at an adjoining table.

Miss Trotter.  Well, I guess it’s gayer out here, anyway.  That Reading Saloon is just about as lively as a burying lot with all the tombs unlet.  I want the address of that man who said that Brussels was a second Parrus.

Mr. Trotter.  Maybe we ain’t been long enough off the cars to jedge yet.  Do you feel like putting on your hat and sack, and sorter smellin’ round this capital?

Miss T. Not any.  I expect the old city will have to curb its impatience to see me till to-morrow.  I’m tired some.

Culch. (to himself).  Confound it, how can I—! (Looks up, and observes Miss T. with a sudden attention).  That fellow PODBURY has better taste than I gave him credit for.  She is pretty—­in her peculiar style—­quite pretty!  Pity she speaks with that deplorable accent.