Podb. (obediently). Yes, I will,—a—did you mean now—and will it take me long, because—
[Miss PRENDERGAST sweeps on scornfully.
Podb. (following, with a desperate effort to be intelligent). They don't seem to have any Fiammingoes here.
Miss P. (freezingly, over her shoulder). Any what, Mr. PODBURY? Flamingoes?
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.