SCENE—­The roof of Milan Cathedral; the innumerable statues and fretted pinnacles show in dazzling relief against the intense blue sky.  Through the open-work of the parapet is seen the vast Piazza, with its yellow toy tram-cars, and the small crawling figures which cast inordinately long shadows.  All around is a maze of pale brown roofs, and beyond, the green plain blending on the horizon with dove-coloured clouds in a quivering violet haze.  CULCHARD is sitting by a small doorway at the foot of a flight of steps leading to the Spire.

[Illustration:  “She passes on with her chin in the air!”]

Culchard (meditating).  I think MAUD must have seen from the tone in which I said I preferred to remain below, that I object to that cousin of hers perpetually coming about with us as he does.  She’s far too indulgent to him—­a posing, affected prig, always talking about the wonderful things he’s going to write!  He had the impudence to tell me I didn’t know the most elementary laws of the sonnet this morning!  Withering repartee seems to have no effect whatever on him, I wish I had some of PODBURY’s faculty for flippant chaff!  I wonder if he and the PRENDERGASTS really are at Milan.  I certainly thought I recognised ——.  If they are, it’s very bad taste of them, after the pointed way in which they left Bellagio.  I only hope we shan’t—­

[Here the figure of Miss PRENDERGAST suddenly emerges from the door; CULCHARD rises and stands aside to let her pass; she returns his salutation distantly, and passes on with her chin in the air; her brother follows, with a side-jerk of recognition.  PODBURY comes last, and halts undecidedly.

Podb. (with a rather awkward laugh).  Here we are again, eh? (Looks after Miss P., hesitates, and finally sits down by CULCHARD.) Where’s the fascinating Miss TROTTER?  How do you come to be off duty like this?

Culch. (stiffly).  The fascinating Miss TROTTER is up above with VAN BOODELER, so my services are not required.

Podb. Up above?  And HYPATIA just gone up with BOB!  Whew, there’ll be ructions presently!  Well out of it, you and I!  So it’s BOODELER’s turn now?  That’s rough on you—­after HYPATIA had whistled poor old BOB off.  As much out in the cold as ever, eh?

Culch. I am nothing of the kind.  I find him distasteful to me, and avoid him as much as I can, that’s all.  I wish, PODBURY, er—­I almost wish you could have stayed with me, instead of allowing the PRENDERGASTS to carry you off as you did.  You would have kept VAN BOODELER in order.

Podb. Much obliged, old chap; but I’m otherwise engaged.  Being kept in order myself.  Oh, I like it, you know.  She’s developing my mind like winking.  Spent the whole morning at the Brera, mugging up these old Italian Johnnies.  They really are clinkers, you know.  RAPHAEL, eh?—­and GIOTTO, and MANTEGNA, and all that lot.  As HYPATIA says, for intensity of—­er religious feeling, and—­and subtlety of symbolism, and—­and so on, they simply take the cake—­romp in, and the rest nowhere!  I’m getting quite the connoisseur, I can tell you!