(_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 utterly deficient in
reverence.
[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_.
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