Podb. I?—­is it likely!  I—­I admire her awfully, you know, only she rather seemed to snub me lately.

Culch. (with patronising reassurance).  Quite a mistake on your part, I assure you, my dear fellow.  I am sure she will learn to appreciate you—­er—­fully when you meet again, which, I may tell you, will be at no very distant date.  I happen to know that she will be at the Italian Lakes early next month, and so shall we, if you let me manage this tour my own way.

Podb. (with surprise and gratitude).  I say, old boy, I’d no notion you were such a nailing good chap!  Nein, danky. (To the little Cripple, who is cheerily inviting him, in pantomime, to drink from his mug.) Cheeky little beggar.  But do you really think anything will—­er—­come of it, if we do meet her again—­do you now?

Culch. I—­ah—­have the best reasons for feeling tolerably certain of it. [He looks out of window and smiles.

Podb. But that cousin of hers—­CHARLEY, you know—­how about him?

Culch. I put that to her, and there is nothing in it.  In fact, she practically admitted—­(He glances round and lowers his voice.) I will tell you another time.  That lady over there is looking at us, and I’m almost certain—­

Podb. What if she is, she don’t understand a word we’re saying.  I want to hear all about Her, you know.

Culch. My dear PODBURY, we shall have ample time to talk about her while we are at Nuremberg together—­it will be the greatest pleasure to me to do so as long as ever you please.

Podb. Thanks, old chap!  I’d no idea you were doing all this, you know.  But just tell me this, what did she say about me?

Culch. (mystified).  About you?  I really don’t recollect that she mentioned you particularly.

Podb. (puzzled).  But I thought you said you’d been speaking up for me!  What did you talk about then?

Culch. Well, about myself—­naturally. [He settles his collar with a vague satisfaction.

Podb. (blankly).  Oh!  Then you haven’t been arranging to meet her again on my account?

Culch. Good Heavens, no—­what a very grotesque idea of yours, my dear fellow! [He laughs gently.

Podb. Is it?  You always gave out that she wasn’t your style at all, and you only regarded her as a “study,” and rot like that.  How could I tell you would go and cut me out?

Culch. I don’t deny that she occasionally—­er—­jarred.  She is a little deficient in surface refinement—­but that will come, that will come.  And as to “cutting you out,” why, you must allow you never had the remotest—­

Podb. I don’t allow anything of the sort.  She liked me well enough till—­till you came in and set her against me, and you may think it friendly if you like, but I call it shabby—­confoundedly shabby.