Miss P. Never mind what I really think.  But you have got us both into sad disgrace.  Mr. CULCHARD is dreadfully annoyed with us—­look at his shoulders!

Culch. (leaning over parapet with his back to them).  That ass PODBURY!  To think of his taking me in with an idiotic trick like that!  And before Her too!  And when I had made it all right about the other evening, and was producing an excellent impression on the way up here.  I wish I could hear what they were whispering about—­more silly jokes at my expense, no doubt.  Bah! as if it affected me!

Podb. (to Miss P.).  I say, how awfully well you draw!

Miss P. There you betray your ignorance in Art matters.  Sketching with me is a pastime, not a serious pursuit, (They go on conversing in a lower tone.) No, please, Mr. PODBURY.  I’m quite sure he would never—­

Podb. (rises; comes up to CULCHARD, and touches his shoulder).  I say, old chappie—­

Culch. (jerking away with temper).  Now, look here, PODBURY.  I’m not in the mood for any more of your foolery—­

Podb. (humbly).  All right, old boy.  I wouldn’t bother you, only Miss PRENDERGAST wants a figure for her foreground, and I said I’d ask you if you’d keep just as you are for a few minutes.  Do you mind?

Culch. (to himself).  Afraid she’s gone too far—­thinks she’ll smooth me down!  Upon my word, it would serve her right to—­but no, I won’t be petty. (Aloud.) Pray tell Miss PRENDERGAST that I have no immediate intention of altering my position.

Podb. Thanks awfully, old chap.  I knew you’d oblige.

Culch. (incisively).  I am obliging Miss PRENDERGAST, and her only. (Raising his voice, without turning his head.) Would you prefer me to face you, Miss PRENDERGAST?

Miss P. (in tremulous tones).  N—­no, thank you.  It—­it’s so much more n—­natural, don’t you know, for you to be l—­looking at the view.

Culch. As you please. (To himself.) Can’t meet my eye.  Good!  I shall go on treating her distantly for a little.  I wonder if I look indifferent enough from behind?  Shall I cross one foot?  Better not—­she may have begun sketching me.  If she imagines I’m susceptible to feminine flattery of this palpable kind, she’ll—­how her voice shook, though, when she spoke.  Poor girl, she’s afraid she offended me by laughing—­and I did think she had more sense than to—­but I mustn’t be too hard on her.  I’m afraid she’s already beginning to think too much of—­and with my peculiar position with Miss TROTTER—­(MAUD, that is)—­not that there’s anything definite at present, still—­(Aloud.) Ahem, Miss PRENDERGAST—­am I standing as you wish? (To himself.) She doesn’t answer—­too absorbed, and I can’t hear that idiot—­found