_The Daughter_ (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could not 'elp fancying this was the artist's por-portrait? portent? no, _protest_ against des-des (_recklessly_) despoticism, and tyranny, but I see it is only--Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of Ulyces." _Her Male Parent._ Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be a' doin' of in the middle of 'em? _Daughter_ (_stolidly_). Don't you be in a nurry, Father (_continuing_) "in the midst of some colonial? _That_ ain't it--_colossial_ animiles fanatically--fan-tasty-cally--" why, this catalogue is 'alf foreign! _Female P._ Never mind, say Peterborough at the 'ard words--_we_ shan't be none the wiser! _Daughter_. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave 'is Peterborough grotter--" _Male P._ That'll do--read what it says about the next one. _Daughter_ (_reading_). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere. Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it." _Both Parents_ (_impressed_). Lor! [_They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the Gallery._ _Culch._ (_rising and going to meet her_). Good morning, Miss TROTTER. We--ah--meet again. _Miss T._ That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can--says he doesn't seem to mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too. Where've you hitched your friend up? _Culch._ My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me. And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this opportunity of disabusing your mind of the--er--totally false impression-- _Miss T._ Oh, _that's_ all right. I told him he needn't try to give me away, for I could see you weren't _that_ kind of man! _Culch._ (_gratefully_). Your instinct was correct--perfectly correct. When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the description my--er--friend considered it humorous to give of me as an unsociable hypochondriac? _Miss T._ Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled folks to death almost. _Culch._ (_annoyed_). Really, this is _most_ unpardonable of Mr. PODBURY! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind one's back is simply too--I do _not_ aspire to--ah--to tickle folks to death! _Miss T._ (_soothingly_). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's better than tickling; every time. And I want you to show me round this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was considerable sand in WIERTZ; sort of spread himself around a good deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.