LITMIR.BIZ

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(indignantly). No, Sare; my vader see Napoleon's laigs; leedle 'at, qvite plain; no faither – nossing.

      Podb. But you just said you had a faither!

      Guide. I say, Napoleon 'ad no faither – vat you call it? —plume– in 'is 'at, at ze bataille.

      Podb. Are you sure? I thought the history books said he "stuck a feather in his hat, and called it Macaroni."

      Miss T. I presume you're thinking of our National Amurrcan character, Yankee Doodle?

      Guide. My vader, 'e no see Napoleon viz a Yankedoodle in 'is 'at; 'e vear nossing.

      Podb. Nothing? What became of the green coat and white waistcoat, then, eh?

      Guide. Ah, you unnerstan' nossing at all! Leesten, I dell you vonce more. My vader —

      Podb. No, look here, my friend; you go and tell that gentleman all about it (indicating Culchard); he's very interested in hearing what Napoleon wore or didn't wear.

      [The Guide takes possession of Culchard once more, who submits, under the impression that Miss Trotter is a fellow-sufferer.

      Guide (concluding a vivid account of the fight at Houguymont). Bot ven zey com qvite nearer, zey vind ze rade line no ze Inglis soldiers – nossing bot a breek vall, viz ze moskets – "Prown Pesses," you coal dem – shdeekin out of ze 'oles! Ze 'oles schdill dere. Dat vas Houguymont, in the orshairde. Now you com viz me and see ze lion. Ze dail, two piece; ze bodi, von piece; ze ball, von piece. I sank you, Sare. 'Ope you com again soon.

      [Culchard discovers that the Trotters and Podbury have gone down some time ago. At the foot of the steps he finds his friend waiting for him, alone.

      Culch. (with stiff politeness). Sorry you considered it necessary to stay behind on my account. I see your American friends have already started for the station.

      Podb. (gloomily). There were only two seats on that coach, and they wouldn't wait for the next. I don't know why, unless it was that they saw you coming down the steps. She can't stand you at any price.

      Culch. (with some heat). Just as likely she had had enough of your buffoonery!

      Podb. (with provoking good humour). Come, old chap, don't get your shirt out with me. Not my fault if she's found out you think yourself too big a swell for her, is it?

      Culch. (hotly). When did I say so – or think so? It's what you've told her about me, and I must say I call it —

      Podb. Don't talk bosh! Who said she was forward and bad form and all the rest of it in the courtyard that first evening? She was close by, and heard every word of it, I shouldn't wonder.

      Culch. (colouring). It's not of vital importance if she did. (Whistling.) Few-fee-fee-foo-foodle-di-fee-di-fa-foo.

      Podb. Not a bit – to her. Better step out if we mean to catch that train. (Humming.) La-di-loodle-lumpty-leedle-um-ti-loo!

      [They step out, Podbury humming pleasantly and Culchard whistling viciously, without further conversation, until they arrive at Braine l'Alleud Station – and discover that they have just missed their train.

      CHAPTER IV.

      Podbury is unpleasantly Surprised

      Scene —The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter Culchard, who seats himself on a central ottoman.

      Culch. (to himself). If Podbury won't come down to breakfast at a decent hour, he can't complain if I – I wonder if he heard Miss Trotter say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow, I should like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and exclusive. I dare say I am– but I do object to being made out a hopeless melancholiac! (He looks round the walls.) So these are Wiertz's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous, – a trifle crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with applications for the one opposite. (He regards an enormous canvas, representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan with a small mast.) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his independence – work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (He takes out note-book and scribbles.) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush for hire." Now if I read that to Podbury, he'd pretend to think I was treating of a shoe-black on strike! Podbury is so utterly deficient in reverence.

      [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 itself!

      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!

      Miss T. (soothingly). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's better than tickling, every time. And I want you to show me round this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was considerable sand in Wiertz; sort of spread himself around a good deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights. (She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by Culchard, who admires her, against his better judgment, more and more.) … I declare if that isn't your friend Mr. Podbury

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