[Ill.u.s.tration: "I GUESS YOU'RE THE MOST UNSELFISH SAINT ON TWO LEGS!"]

CULCH. She is--er--vivacious, certainly. (PODBURY _sighs_.) You seem rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?

PODB. Not dull--a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly back-courts and ca.n.a.ls and in stuffy churches--it _can't_ be healthy, you know! And they've _no_ drainage. I only hope I haven't caught something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general lowness--_She_ says I lunch too heavily--but I swear it's more than that!

CULCH. Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low, with all your advantages--in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift--!

PODB. Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?

CULCH. If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense.

Every earnest nature presents an--er--priggish side at times. I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't _know_ me of course, been charged with priggishness.

PODB. Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about _her_. Only--well, it don't signify. [_He sighs._

CULCH. Ah, Podbury, take the good the G.o.ds provide you and be content!

You might be worse off, believe me!

PODB. (_discontentedly_). It's all very well for _you_ to talk--with Miss Trotter all to yourself. I suppose you're regularly engaged by this time, eh?

CULCH. Not quite. There's still a----And your probation, that's practically at an end?

PODB. I don't know. Can't make her out. She wouldn't sit on me the way she does unless she _liked_ me, I suppose. But I say, it must be awf--rather jolly for you with Miss Trotter? She's got so much _go_, eh?

CULCH. You used to say she wasn't what you call cultivated.

PODB. I know I did. That's just what I like about her! At least--well, we _both_ ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky beggars, I'm sure!

[_He sighs more heavily than ever._

CULCH. You especially, my dear Podbury. In fact, I doubt if you're half grateful enough!

PODB. (_snappishly_). Yes, I am, I tell you. _I_'m not grumbling, am I?

I know as well as you do she's miles too good for me. Haven't I _said_ so? Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?

CULCH. I am glad you see it in that light. Aren't you a little irritable to-night?

PODB. No, I'm not. It's those filthy ca.n.a.ls. And the way you talk--as if a girl like Miss Trotter wasn't----!

CULCH. I really can't allow you to lecture me. I am not insensible to my good-fortune--if others are. Now we'll drop the subject.

PODB. I'm willing enough to drop it. And I shall turn in now--it's late.

You coming?

CULCH. Not yet. Good-night. (_To himself, as_ PODBURY _departs_.) You tasteless _dolt_!

PODB. Good-night! (_To himself, as he swings off._) Confounded patronizing _prig_!

CHAPTER XXIII.

+PEARLS AND PIGS.+

SCENE--_The Lower Hall of the Scuola di San Rocco, Venice. British Tourists discovered studying the Tintorets on the walls and ceiling by the aid of Ruskin, Hare, and Baedeker, from which they read aloud, instructively, to one another._ MISS PRENDERGAST _has brought "The Stones of Venice" for the benefit of her brother and_ PODBURY. _Long self-repression has reduced_ PODBURY _to that unpleasantly hysterical condition known as "a fit of the giggles," which, however, has. .h.i.therto escaped detection_.

MISS P. (_standing opposite "The Flight into Egypt" reading_). "One of the princ.i.p.al figures here is the Donkey." Where _is_ Mr. Podbury? [_To_ P., _who reappears, humbly proffering a tin focussing-case_.] Thanks, but you need not have troubled! "The Donkey ... um--um--never seen--um--um--any of the n.o.bler animals so sublime as this quiet head of the domestic a.s.s"--(_here_ BOB _digs_ PODBURY _in the ribs behind_ MISS P.'S _back_)--"chiefly owing to the grand motion in the nostril, and writhing in the ears." (_A spasmodic choke from_ PODBURY.) May I ask what you find so amusing?

PODB. (_crimson_). I--I _beg_ your pardon--I don't know _what_ I was laughing at exactly. (_Aside to_ BOB.) _Will_ you shut up, confound you!

A STOUT LADY (_close by, reading from Hare_). "The whole symmetry of it depending on a narrow line of light." (_Dubiously, to her Daughter._) I don't _quite_--oh yes, I do now--that's it--where my sunshade is--"the edge of a carpenter's square, which connects those unused tools" ...

h'm--can _you_ make out the "unused tools," Ethel? _I_ can't.... But he says--"The Ruined House is the Jewish Dispensation." Now I should never have found _that_ out for myself. (_They pa.s.s to another canvas._) "Tintoret denies himself all aid from the features.... No time allowed for watching the expression."... (That reminds me--what _is_ the time by your bracelet, darling?) "No blood, no stabbing, or cutting ... but an awful subst.i.tute for these in the chiaroscuro." (Ah, yes, indeed! Do you see it, love?--in the right-hand corner.) "So that our eyes "--(_comfortably_)--"seem to become blood-shot, and strained with strange horror, and deadly vision." (Not one o'clock, _really_?--and we've to meet Papa outside Florian's for lunch at one-thirty! Dear me, we mustn't stay too long over this room.)

A SOLEMN GENTLEMAN (_struggling with a troublesome cough, who is also provided with Hare, reading aloud to his wife_). "Further enhanced by--rook--rook--rook!--a largely-made--rook--ook!--farm-servant, leaning on a ork-ork--ork--ork--or--ook!--basket. Shall I--ork!--go on?"

HIS WIFE. Yes, dear, do, _please_! It makes one notice things so _much_ more! [_The_ SOLEMN GENTLEMAN _goes on_.

MISS P. (_as they reach the staircase_). Now just look at this t.i.tian, Mr. Podbury! Ruskin particularly mentions it. Do note the mean and petty folds of the drapery, and compare them with those in the Tintorets in there.

PODB. (_obediently_). Yes, I will,--a--did you mean _now_--and will it take me long, because---- [MISS PRENDERGAST _sweeps on scornfully_.

PODB. (_following, with a desperate effort to be intelligent_). They don't seem to have any Fiammingoes here.

MISS P. (_freezingly, over her shoulder_). Any _what_, Mr. Podbury?

Flamingoes?

PODB. (_confidently, having noted down the name at the Accademia on his shirt-cuff_). No, "Ignoto Fiammingo," don't you know. I like that chap's style--what I call thoroughly Venetian.

[_Well-informed persons in front overhear and smile._

MISS P. (_annoyed_). That is rather strange--because "Ignoto Fiammingo"

happens to be merely the Italian for "an unknown Fleming," Mr. Podbury.

[_Collapse of_ PODBURY.

BOB. (_aside to_ PODBURY). You great owl, you came a cropper _that_ time!

[_He and_ PODBURY _indulge in a subdued bear-fight up the stairs, after which they enter the Upper Hall in a state of preternatural solemnity_.

THE SOLEMN G. Now what _I_ want to see, my dear, is the ork--ork--angel that Ruskin thinks Tintoretto painted the day after he saw a rook--kic--kic--kic--kingfisher.

[BOB _nudges_ PODBURY, _who resists temptation heroically_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SOLEMN GENTLEMAN STRUGGLING WITH A TROUBLESOME COUGH.]

MISS P. (_reading_).... "the fig-tree which, by a curious caprice, has golden ribs to all its leaves."--Do you see the ribs, Mr. Podbury?

PODB. (_feebly_). Y--yes. I _believe_ I do. Think they grew that sort of fig-tree formerly, or is it--a--_allegorical_?

MISS P. (_receiving this query in crushing silence_). The ceiling requires careful study. Look at that oblong panel in the centre--with the fiery serpents, which Ruskin finely compares to "winged lampreys."