'A little,' replied Sponge, in a tone that might mean either yes or no--a
great deal or nothing at all.
Jawleyford then took him and worked him through his collection--talked of
light and shade, and tone, and depth of colouring, tints, and pencillings;
and put Sponge here and there and everywhere to catch the light (or rain,
as the case might be); made him convert his hand into an opera-glass, and
occasionally put his head between his legs to get an upside-down view--a
feat that Sponge's equestrian experience made him pretty well up to. So
they looked, and admired, and criticized, till Spigot's all-important
figure came looming up the gallery and announced that luncheon was ready.
'Bless me!' exclaimed Jawleyford, pulling a most diminutive Geneva watch,
hung with pencils, pistol-keys, and other curiosities, out of his pocket;
'Bless me, who'd have thought it? One o'clock, I declare! Well, if this
doesn't prove the value of a gallery on a wet day. I don't know what does.
However,' said he, 'we must tear ourselves away for the present, and go and
see what the ladies are about.
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