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?
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 wished to stop at Bruges, and see the Memlings.
Podb. I do like that! For a fellow who means 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.