Culch. Grieving!  Ah, if I could only tell you what I went through! (Decides, on reflection, that the less he says about this the better.) But all that is past.  And now may I not expect a more definite answer to the question I asked at Bingen?  Your reply then was—­well, a little ambiguous.

Miss T. I guess it’s got to be just about as ambiguous now—­there don’t seem anything I can say.  There’s times when I feel as if it might be sort of elevating and improving to have you shining around; and there’s other times when I suspect that, if it went on for any considerable period, likely I’d weaken.  I’m not just sure.  And I can’t ever make myself believe but what you’re disapproving of me, inside of you, most all the time!

Culch. Pray dismiss such—­er—­morbid misgivings, dear Miss TROTTER.  Show that you do so by accepting me as your guide and companion through life!

Miss T. My! but that sounds like a proposal?

Culch. I intended it to bear that—­er—­construction.  It is a proposal—­made after the fullest reflection.

Miss T. I’m ever so obliged.  But we don’t fix things quite that way in my country.  We want to feel pretty sure, first, we shann’t get left.  And it don’t seem to me as if I’d had opportunities enough of studying your leading characteristics.  I’ll have to study them some more before I know whereabouts I am; and I want you to understand that I’m not going to commit myself to anything at present.  That mayn’t be sentiment, but I guess it’s common-sense, anyway.  And all you’ve got to do is, just to keep around, and kind of impress me with a conviction that you’re the vurry brightest and best man in the entire universe, and I don’t believe you’ll find much difficulty about that.  And now I guess we’ll go into table d’hote—­I’m just as ravenous!

Culch. (to himself, as he follows her).  Really, this is not much better than RUSKIN, after all.  But I don’t despair.  That last remark was distinctly encouraging!

SCENE—­A large Salle a Manger, decorated in the Pompeian style.  Table d’hote has begun. CULCHARD is seated between Miss TROTTER and a large and conversational stranger.  Opposite are three empty chairs.

Culchard’s Neighbour.  Then you’re going on to Venice?  Well, you take my advice.  When you get there, you ask for tunny.  Don’t forget—­tunny!

Culch. (who wants to talk to Miss T.) Tunny?  Thank you.  I—­er—­will certainly remember his name, if I require a guide.

His N. A guide?  No, no—­tunny’s a fish, Sir, a coarse red fish, with flesh like a raw beefsteak.

Culch. Is that so?  Then I will make a point of asking for it—­if I want raw beefsteak. [Attempts to turn to Miss T.

His N. That’s what I did when I was at Venice.  I sent for the Manager.  He came.  I said to him.  “Look here, I’m an Englishman.  My name’s BELLERBY.  (CULCHARD bows in patient boredom.) I’ve heard of your Venetian tunny.  I wish to taste it. Bring me some!”