_Podb._ (_confidently, having noted down the name at the Accademia on his shirt-cuff_). No, "Ignoto Fiammingo," don't you know. I like that chap's style--what I call thoroughly Venetian. [_Well-informed persons in front overhear and smile._ _Miss P._ (_annoyed_). That is rather strange--because "Ignoto Fiammingo" happens to be merely the Italian for "an unknown Fleming," Mr. PODBURY. [_Collapse of PODBURY._ _Bob_. (_aside to PODBURY_). You great owl, you came a cropper _that_ time! [_He and PODBURY indulge in a subdued bear-fight up the stairs, after which they enter the Upper Hall in a state of preternatural solemnity._ _The Solemn G._ Now what _I_ want to see, my dear, is the ork--ork--angel that RUSKIN thinks TINTORETTO painted the day after he saw a rook--kic--kic--kic--kingfisher. [_BOB nudges PODBURY, who resists temptation heroically._ _Miss P._ (_reading_).... "the fig-tree which, by a curious caprice, has golden ribs to all its leaves."--Do you see the ribs, Mr. PODBURY. _Podb._ (_feebly_). Y--yes. I _believe_ I do. Think they grew that sort of fig-tree formerly, or is it--a--_allegorical_? _Miss P._ (_receiving this query in crushing silence_). The ceiling requires careful study. Look at that oblong panel in the centre--with the fiery serpents, which RUSKIN finely compares to "winged lampreys." You're not looking in the right way to see them, Mr. PODBURY! _Podb._ (_faintly_). I--I did see them--_all_ of them, on my honour I did! But it gives me such a crick in my neck! _Miss P._ Surely TINTORET is worth a crick in the neck. Did you observe "the intense delight in biting expressed in their eyes?" _Bob._ (_frivolously_). _I_ did, 'PATIA--exactly the same look I observed last night, in a mosquito's eye. [_PODBURY has to use his handkerchief violently._ _The Stout Lady_. Now, ETHEL, we can just spend ten minutes on the ceiling--and then we _must_ go. That's evidently JONAH in the small oval. (_Referring to plan_.) Yes, I thought so,--it _is_ JONAH. RUSKIN considers "the whale's tongue much too large, unless it is a kind of crimson cushion for JONAH to kneel upon." Well, why _not_? _Ethel_. A cushion, Mother? what, _inside_ the whale! _The Stout Lady_. That we are not _told_, my love--"The submissiveness of Jonah is well given"--So true--but Papa can't bear being kept waiting for his lunch--we really ought to go now. [_They go._ _The Solemn G._ (_reading_). "There comes up out of the mist a dark hand." Have _you_ got the dark hand yet, my dear? _His Wife_. No, dear, only the mist. At least, there's something that _may_ be a branch; or a _bird_ of some sort. _The S.G._ Ha, it's full of suggestion--full of suggestion! [_He passes on, coughing._