Culch. Don’t talk so loud, I’m sure I saw that woman smile!

Podb. She may smile her head off for all I care. (The train stops; the Cripple and all but the Pale-haired Lady get out.) Here we are at Nuremberg.  What hotel did you say you are going to?

Culch. The Bayrischer-Hof.  Why?

    [He gets his coat and sticks, &c., out of the rack.

Podb. Because I shall go to some other, that’s all.

Culch. (in dismay).  My dear PODBURY. this is really too childish!  There’s no sense in travelling together, if we’re going to stay at different hotels!

Podb. I’m not sure I shall go any further.  Anyway, while I am here, I prefer to keep to myself.

Culch. (with a displeased laugh).  Just as you please.  It’s a matter of perfect indifference to me.  I’m afraid you’ll be terribly bored by yourself, though.

Podb. That’s my look out.  It can’t be worse than going about with you and listening while you crow and drivel about her, that’s one comfort! [The Pale-haired Lady coughs in a suspicious manner.

Culch. You don’t even know if there is another hotel.

Podb. I don’t care.  I can find a pot-house somewhere, I daresay.

The Pale-haired Lady (in excellent English, to PODBURY as he passes out).  Pardon me, you will find close to the Bahnhof a very goot hotel—­the Wurtemburger.

    [PODBURY thanks her and alights in some confusion; the
    Lady sinks back, smiling.

Culch. (annoyed).  She must have understood every word we said!  Are you in earnest over this? (PODBURY nods grimly.) Well, you’ll soon get tired of your own society, I warn you.

Podb. Thanks, we shall see.

[He saunters off with his bag:  CULCHARD shrugs his shoulders, and goes in search of the Bayrischer-Hof Porter, to whom he entrusts his luggage tickets, and takes his seat in the omnibus alone.

* * * * *

“ANGELS AND MINISTERS OF GRACE!”

["The London Correspondent of the Manchester Guardian hears that certain ungallant Members of Parliament are threatening at the beginning of next Session to make a formal protest against the wholesale admission of ladies to the precincts of the House.”]

  Ungallant!  Vastly fine!  But when they crowd
    The terrace seats, elbow us in the lobbies,
  Chatter and laugh, and care no more about
    (Elderly) senators than boys or bobbies;
  Why then, Sir, all M.P.’s of nerve and nous
    Will say that, though we love the babbling beauties,
  The swarming of these “Angels in the House,”
    Will simply play the devil with its duties!

[Illustration:  “NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS!”