[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.
A Solemn Gentleman Struggling With a Troublesome Cough.
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?