Her Nephew. Oh, it tells you all about it in the Catalogue—he meets her funeral, you know, and leaves grow on his stick.
The Matron (pursing her lips). Oh, a dead person.
[Repulses the Catalogue severely and passes on.
First Person, with an "Eye for Art" (before "Pysche's Bath," by the President). Not bad, eh?
Second Person, &c. No, I rather like it. (Feels that he is growing too lenient.) He doesn't give you a very good idea of marble, though.
First P. &c. No—that's not marble, and he always puts too many folds in his drapery to suit me.
First P. &c. Just what I always say. It's not natural, you know.
[They pass on, much pleased with themselves and one another.
A Fiancé (halting before a sea-scape, by Mr. Henry Moore, to Fiancée). Here, I say, hold on a bit—what's this one?
Fiancée (who doesn't mean to waste the whole afternoon over pictures). Why, it's only a lot of waves—come on!