(_He
sighs._) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these
subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of
the conical caps of those towers. I _ought_--but I don't. I fancy that
half-engagement to MAUD TROTTER must have, scared away the Muse. I
wonder if PODBURY has really gone yet? (_Here a thump on the back
disposes of any doubt as to this._) Er--so you're still at Nuremberg?
[Awkwardly.
[Illustration: "Er--I have brought you the philosophical work I
mentioned."]
_Podbury_ (_cheerfully_). Rather! Regular ripping old place
this--suits me down to the ground. And how are _you_ getting on?
_Culch._ Perfectly, thanks. My mind is being--er--stimulated here in
the direction most congenial to it.
_Podb._ So's mine. By the way, have you got a book--don't mean a
novel, but a regular improving book--the stodgier the better--to lend
a fellow?
_Culch._ Well, I brought an _Epitome of Herbert Spencer's Synthetic
Philosophy_ away with me to dip into occasionally. It seems a very
able summary, and you are welcome to it, if it's of any use to you.
_Podb._ SPENCER, eh?--he's a stiff kind of old bird, ain't he? He'll
do me to-rights, thanks.
_Culch._ It strikes me, PODBURY, that you must find the time
rather long, to want a book of that kind. If you wish to resume
our--ah--original relations, I am quite ready to overlook what I am
sure was only a phase of not unnatural disappointment.
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