[Illustration:  “I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.”]

[Close by is a party of three Tourists—­a Father and Mother, and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat effusive Official Catalogue; the Education of all three appears to have been elementary.

The Daughter (spelling out the words laboriously).  “I could not ’elp fancying this was the artist’s por-portrait? portent? no, protest against des-des (recklessly) despoticism, and tyranny, but I see it is only—­Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of Ulyces.”

Her Male Parent. Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be a’ doin’ of in the middle of ’em?

Daughter (stolidly).  Don’t you be in a nurry, Father (continuing) “in the midst of some colonial? That ain’t it—­colossial animiles fanatically—­fan-tasty-cally—­” why, this catalogue is ’alf foreign!

Female P. Never mind, say Peterborough at the ’ard words—­we shan’t be none the wiser!

Daughter.  “The sime-boalic ram the ’ero is to Peterborough and leave ’is Peterborough grotter—­”

Male P. That’ll do—­read what it says about the next one.

Daughter (reading).  “The Forge of Vulkin.  Words are useless ’ere.  Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it.”

Both Parents (impressed).  Lor!

    [They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the
    Gallery.

Culch. (rising and going to meet her).  Good morning, Miss TROTTER.  We—­ah—­meet again.

Miss T. That’s an undeniable fact.  I’ve left Poppa outside.  Poppa restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can—­says he doesn’t seem to mix up his impressions so much that way.  But you’re alone, too.  Where’ve you hitched your friend up?

Culch. My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me.  And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this opportunity of disabusing your mind of the—­er—­totally false impression—­

Miss T. Oh, that’s all right.  I told him he needn’t try to give me away, for I could see you weren’t that kind of man!

Culch. (gratefully).  Your instinct was correct—­perfectly correct.  When you say “that kind of man,” I presume you refer to the description my—­er—­friend considered it humorous to give of me as an unsociable hypochondriac?

Miss T. Well, no; he didn’t say just that.  He represented you as one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled folks to death almost.

Culch. (annoyed).  Really, this is most unpardonable of Mr. PODBURY!  To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind one’s back is simply too—­I do not aspire to—­ah—­to tickle folks to death!