c6"> "Gets up and quits the room with dignity."

Prend. What on earth made you ask him to come on here, after he declared he wouldn't?

Podb. I! I ask him? He settled it all with your sister. How could I help it?

Prend. I'd do something. Why can't you tell him right out he ain't wanted? I would—like a shot!

Podb. It's not so easy to tell him as you think. We haven't been on speaking terms these three days. And, after all (feebly) we're supposed to be travelling together, don't you know! You might drop him a hint now.

Prend. Don't see how I can very well—not on my own hook. Might lead to ructions with HYPATIA, too.

Podb. (anxiously). BOB, you—you don't think your sister really—eh?

Prend. HYPATIA's a rum girl—always was. She certainly don't seem to object to your friend CULCHARD. What the dickens she can see in him, I don't know!—but it's no use my putting my oar in. She'd only jump on me, y'know!

Podb. (rising). Then I must. If that's what he's really after, I think I can stop his little game. I'll try, at any rate. It's a long worm that has no turning, and I've had about enough of it. The first chance I get. I'll go for him.

Prend. Good luck to you, old chap. There, they're coming in now. We'd better go in and change, eh? We've none too much time.

[They go in.

In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing. CULCHARD is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering the jokes in "Fliegende Blätter." PODBURY is at the bookcase, turning over odd TAUCHNITZ volumes.

The Chaplain's Wife (to the Curate, a new arrival). Oh, you will very soon get into all our little ways. The hours here are most convenient—breakfast (table d'hôte) with choice of eggs or fish and coffee—really admirable coffee—from eight to nine; midday dinner at one. Supper at nine. Then, if you want to write a letter, the post for England goes out at—(&c., &c.) And on Sundays, eleven o'clock service (Evangelical, of course!) at the—(&c., &c.) My husband—(&c., &c.)

First Old Maid (looking up from a four days old "Telegraph"). I see they are still continuing that very interesting correspondence on "Our Children's Mouths—and are they widening?" One letter attributes it to the habit of thumb—sucking in infancy—which certainly ought to be checked. Now I never would allow any—

The Chaplain's Wife. Nor I. But corals are quite as bad. Only this afternoon I was telling a Lady in this hotel that her little boy would be much happier with a rubber ring. You get them at a shop in the Hoch-strasse I can take you to it at any time, or if you like to mention my name—(&c., &c.)

Second O.M. One correspondent thought the practice of eating soup with table-spoons tended to enlarge the mouth. I really believe there may be something in it. [A pause.

The Curate. The weather we have been having seems to have materially affected the harvest prospects at home; they say there will be little or no fodder for the cattle this year. I saw somewhere—I forget where it was exactly—a suggestion to feed cows on chickweed.

Podb. (at the bookcase). Capital thing for them too, Sir. Know a man who never gives his cattle anything else.

The Curate. Oh, really? And does he find the experiment answer?

Podb. They take to it like birds. And—curious thing—after he'd tried it a month, all the cows turned yellow and went about chirping and twittering and hopping. Fact, I assure you!

The Curate. Dear me—I should scarcely have—

[He gradually comes to the conclusion that he is being trifled with, and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, gets up and quits the room with dignity.

Podb. (to himself). One of 'em gone! Now if I can only clear these old tabbies out, I can tackle CULCHARD. (Aloud, to Chaplain's Wife.) You don't happen to know if there's a good doctor here, I suppose? A lady was saying in the Musik-saal—the lady with the three daughters who came this afternoon—that she was afraid they were in for bad feverish colds or something, and asking who there was to call in.

The C.'s W. Oh, I've no belief in foreign doctors. I always find a few drops of aconite or pulsatilla,—I have my homoeopathic case with me now. Perhaps, if I went and had a talk with her I could—[She goes out energetically.

Podb. Another gone! (To the Old Maids.) So you ain't going down to the Cloisters to-night? I'm told there's to be some fun there—Hide-and-seek, or something—first-rate place for it, especially now the moon's up!

First Old Maid. Nobody told us a word about it. Hide-and-seek—and in those quaint old Cloisters too—It sounds delightful! What do you say, TABITHA. Shall we just—? Only to look on, you know. We needn't play, unless—

[The Two Old Maids withdraw in a pleased flutter. PODBURY crosses to CULCHARD.

Podb. (with determination). Look here, CULCHARD, I'd just like to know what you mean by the way you're going on.

Culch. I thought we were both agreed that discussions of this kind—

Podb. It's all bosh our travelling together if we're not to have any discussions. You've been on the sulk long enough. And I'll thank you to inform me what you're after here, going about alone with Miss PRENDERGAST like this, in the Museum with her all the morning, and on the lake again this afternoon,—it won't do, you know!

Culch. If she happens to prefer my society to yours and her brother's, I presume you have no claim to interfere.

Podb. I don't know about that. How about Miss TROTTER?

Culch. If I remember rightly, you yourself were not insensible to Miss TROTTER's—er—attractions?

Podb. Perhaps not; but I am not engaged to her—you are. You told me so in the train.

Culch. You entirely misunderstood me. There was no definite understanding between us—nothing of the sort or kind. In fact, it was merely a passing caprice. Since I have had the privilege of knowing Miss PRENDERGAST, I see clearly—

Podb. Then you mean to propose to her, eh?

Culch. That is certainly my intention; have you any objection to offer?

Podb. Only that I mean to propose too. I daresay my chances are as good as yours—even now.

Culch. I doubt it, my dear fellow; however, don't let me discourage you.

Podb. I don't intend to. (The figure of Miss PRENDERGAST is seen to pass the glazed doors, and move slowly across the Musik-saal; both rush to the door, and look after her.) She's gone out into the balcony. 'Jove, I'll go, too, and get it over!

Culch. I should not advise you to do so. It is possible she may have gone there with the—er—expectation of being joined by—by somebody else. [He smiles complacently.

Podb. You mean she gave you a rendezvous there? I don't believe it!

Culch. I did not say so. But I am not prepared to deny that I have