CHAPTER VIII.
Podbury finds Consolation.
Scene—A Bridge over the Pegnitz, at Nuremberg. Time, afternoon. The shadows of the old gabled and balconied houses are thrown sharply on the reddish-yellow water. Above the steep speckled roofs, the spires of St. Lorenz glitter against the blue sky. Culchard is leaning listlessly upon the parapet of the bridge.
Culchard (to himself). How mediæval it all is, and how infinitely restful! (He yawns.) What a blessed relief to be without that fellow Podbury! He's very careful to keep out of my way—I've scarcely seen him since I've been here. He must find it dreadfully dull. (He sighs.) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of the conical caps of those towers. I ought—but I don't. I fancy that half-engagement to Maud Trotter must have scared away the Muse. I wonder if Podbury has really gone yet? (Here a thump on the back disposes of any doubt as to this.) Er—so you're still at Nuremberg? [Awkwardly.
Podb. (cheerfully). Rather! Regular ripping old place this—suits me down to the ground. And how are you getting on, my bonnie boy, eh?
Culch. (who does not quite like being addressed as a bonnie boy). Perfectly, thanks. My mind is being—er—stimulated here in the direction most congenial to it.
Podb. So's mine. By the way, have you got a book—I don't mean a novel, but a regular improving book—the stodgier the better—to lend a fellow?
Culch. Well, I brought an Epitome of Herbert Spencer's Synthetic Philosophy away with me to dip into occasionally. It seems a very able summary, and you are welcome to it, if it's of any use to you.
Podb. Spencer, eh?—he's a stiff kind of old bird, ain't he? He'll do me to-rights, thanks.