_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. [_Writes--"Vermilion lips that sheathe a parrot tongue," and runs over all the possible rhymes to "tongue."_ _Podb._ (_observing that his pencil is idle_). Gas cut off again? Come for a toddle. You don't mean to stick here all the evening, eh?