IN THE CENTRAL HALL.

The usual Jocose 'Arry (who has come here with 'Arriet, for no very obvious reason, as they neither of them know or care about any history but their own). Well, I s'pose as we are 'ere, we'd better go in a buster for a book o' the words, eh? (To Commissionaire.) What are yer doin' them c'rect guides at, ole man? A shillin'? Not me! 'Ere, 'Arriet, we'll make it out for ourselves.

A Young Man (who has dropped in for five minutes—"just to say he's been, don't you know"). 'Jove—my Aunt! Nip out before she spots me.... Stop, though, suppose she has spotted me? Never can tell with giglamps ... better not risk it. [Is "spotted" while hesitating.

His Aunt. I didn't recognise you till just this moment, John, my boy. I was just wishing I had some one to read out all the extracts in the Catalogue for me; now we can go round together.

[John affects a dutiful delight at this suggestion, and wonders mentally if he can get away in time to go to afternoon tea with those pretty Chesterton Girls.

An Uncle (who has taken Master Tommy out for the afternoon). This is the way to make your English History real to you, my boy!

[Tommy, who had cherished hopes of Covent Garden Circus, privately thinks that English History is a sufficiently unpleasant reality as it is, and conceives a bitter prejudice against the entire Tudor Period on the spot.

The Intelligent Person. Ha! armour of the period, you see!

(Feels bound to make an intelligent remark.) 'Stonishing how the whole art of war has been transformed since then, eh? Now—to me—(as if he was conscious of being singular in this respect)—to me, all this is most interesting. Coming as I do, fresh from Froude—

His Companion (a Flippant Person). Don't speak so loud. If they know you've come in here fresh, you'll get turned out!

Patronising Persons (inspecting magnificent suit of russet and gilt armour). 'Pon my word, no idea they turned out such good work in those times—very creditable to them, really.

BEFORE THE PORTRAITS.

The Uncle. Now, Tommy, you remember what became of Katherine of Aragon, I'm sure? No, no—tut—tut—she wasn't executed! I'm afraid you're getting rather rusty with these long holidays. Remind me to speak to your mother about setting you a chapter or so of history to read every day when we get home, will you?

Tommy (to himself). It is hard lines on a chap having a Sneak for an Uncle! Catch me swotting to please him!

'Arry. There's old 'Enery the Eighth, you see—that's 'im right enough; him as 'ad all those wives, and cut every one of their 'eds off!

'Arriet (admiringly). Ah, I knew we shouldn't want a Catalogue.

The Int. P. Wonderfully Holbein's caught the character of the man—the—er—curious compound of obstinacy, violence, good-humour, sensuality, and—and so on. No mistaking a Holbein—you can tell him at once by the extraordinary finish of all the accessories. Now look at that girdle—isn't that Holbein all over?

Flippant P. Not quite all over, old fellow. Catalogue says it's painted by Paris Bordone.

The Int. P. Possibly—but it's Holbein's manner, and, looking at these portraits, you see at once how right Froude's estimate was of the King.

F. P. Does Froude say how he got that nasty one on the side of his nose?

A Visitor. Looks overfed, don't he?

Second V. (sympathetically). Oh, he fed himself very well; you can see that.

The Aunt. Wait a bit, John—don't read so fast. I haven't made out the middle background yet. And where's the figure of St. Michael rising above the gilt tent, lined with fleurs-de-lis on a blue ground? Would this be Guisnes, or Ardres, now? Oh, Ardres on the right—so that's Ardres—yes, yes; and now tell me what it says about the two gold fountains, and that dragon up in the sky.

[John calculates that, at this rate, he has a very poor chance of getting away before the Gallery closes.

The Patronising Persons. 'Um! Holbein again, you see—very curious their ideas of painting in those days. Ah, well, Art has made great progress since then—like everything else!

Miss Fisher. So that's the beautiful Queen Mary! I wonder if it is really true that people have got better-looking since those days?

[Glances appealingly at Phlegmatic FiancÉ.

Her Phlegmatic FiancÉ. I wonder.

Miss F. You hardly ever see such small hands now, do you? With those lovely long fingers, too!

The Phl. F. No, never.

Miss F. Perhaps people in some other century will wonder how anybody ever saw anything to admire in us?

The Phl. F. Shouldn't be surprised.

[Miss F. does wish secretly that Charles had more conversation.

The Aunt. John, just find out who No. 222 is.

John (sulkily). Sir George Penruddocke, Knight.

His Aunt (with enthusiasm). Of course—how interesting this is, isn't it?—seeing all these celebrated persons exactly as they were in life! Now read who he was, John, please.

The Int. Person. Froude tells a curious incident about—

Flippant P. I tell you what it is, old chap, if you read so much history, you'll end by believing it!

The Int. P. (pausing before the Shakspeare portraits). "He was not for an age, but for all time."

The Fl. P. I suppose that's why they've painted none of them alike.

A Person with a talent for Comparison. Mary, come here a moment. Do look at this—"Elizabeth, Lady Hoby"—did you ever see such a likeness?

Mary. Well, dear, I don't quite—

The Person with, &c. It's her living image! Do you mean to say you really don't recognise it?—Why, Cook, of course!

Mary. Ah! (apologetically)—but I've never seen her dressed to go out, you know.

The Uncle. "No. 13, Sir Rowland Hill, Lord Mayor, died 1561"—

Tommy (anxious to escape the threatened chapters if possible). I know about him, Uncle, he invented postage stamps!

OVER THE CASES.

First Patronising P. "A Tooth of Queen Katherine Parr." Dear me! very quaint.

Second P. P. (tolerantly). And not at all a bad tooth, either.

'Arriet (comes to a case containing a hat labelled as formerly belonging to Henry the Eighth). 'Arry, look 'ere; fancy a king going about in a thing like that—pink with a green feather! Why, I wouldn't be seen in it myself!

'Arry. Ah, but that was ole 'Enery all over, that was; he wasn't one for show. He liked a quiet, unassumin' style of 'at, he did. "None of yer loud pot 'ats for Me!" he'd tell the Royal 'atters; "find me a tile as won't attract people's notice, or you won't want a tile yerselves in another minute!" An' you may take yer oath they served him pretty sharp, too!

'Arriet (giggling). It's a pity they didn't ask you to write their Catalogue for 'em.

The Aunt. John, you're not really looking at that needlework—it's Queen Elizabeth's own work, John. Only look how wonderfully fine the stitches are. Ah, she was a truly great woman! I could spend hours over this case alone. What, closing are they, already? We must have another day at this together, John—just you and I.

John. Yes, Aunt. And now—(thinks there is just time to call on the Chestertons, if he goes soon)—can I get you a cab, or put you into a 'bus or anything?

His Aunt. Not just yet; you must take me somewhere where I can get a bun and a cup of tea first, and then we can go over the Catalogue together, and mark all the things we missed, you know.

[John resigns himself to the inevitable rather than offend his wealthy relative; the Intelligent Person comes out, saying he has had "an intellectual treat" and intends to "run through Froude again" that evening. 'Arry and 'Arriet, depart to the "Ocean Wave" at Hengler's. Gallery gradually clears as Scene closes in.