Culch. (crushingly).  A most excellent method of obtaining it, no doubt. (To Waiter.) Numero vingt-sept, demi bouteille de Chianti, et siphon!

His N. You don’t wait till I’ve done, Sir!  I didn’t obtain it—­not at first.  The man made excuses.  I was prepared for that.  I told him plainly, “I know what you’re thinking—­it’s a cheap fish, and you fancy I’m ordering it out of economy!”

Culch. (raising his eyebrows for Miss T.’s benefit).  Of course, he naturally would think so.  And that is how you got your tunny?  I see. [Mr. BELLERBY stares at him suspiciously, and decides to suppress the remainder of his tunny.

Miss T. This hotel seems to be thinning some.  We’ve three ghosts right in front of us this evening.

Culch. (turning with effusion).  So we have!  My friend is one, and he’ll be here presently, but I much prefer myself to see every seat occupied.  There is something so depressing about a vacant chair, don’t you think?

Miss T. It’s calculated to put one in mind of Macbeth’s little dinner-party, certainly.  But you can cheer up, Mr. CULCHARD, here comes a couple of belated Banquos. My gracious; I do like that girl’s face—­she has such a perfectly lovely expression, and looks real superior too!

Culch. (who has just dropped his glasses into his soup).  I—­ah—­which lady are you referring too? (He cleans and adjusts his glasses—­to discover that he is face to face with Miss HYPATIA PRENDERGAST.) Oh ...  I—­I see—­precisely, quite so! (He turns to BELLERBY to cover his confusion and avoid meeting Miss PRENDERGAST’S eye.) I beg your pardon, you were describing how you caught a tunny?  Pray continue.

Mr. Bellerby (stiffly).  Excuse me, I don’t seem fortunate enough to have secured your undivided attention.

Culch. (with intense interest).  Quite the contrary, I assure you!  You were saying you always ordered it out of economy?

Mr. B. Pardon me—­I was saying nothing of the sort.  I was saying that I told the Manager I knew that was why he thought I ordered it—­a rather different thing!  “You’re quite wrong,” I said.  “You may pay twopence-halfpenny a pound for it, and charge me half-a-crown, if you like, but I mean to taste that tunny!” I was determined not to be done out of my tunny, Sir!

Culch. (breathlessly).  And what did the tunny—­I mean the Manager—­say to that?

Mr. B. Oh, made more difficulties—­it wasn’t to be got, and so on.  At last I said to him (very quietly, but he saw I was in earnest), “Now I tell you what it is—­I’m going to have that tunny, and, if you refuse to give it me,—­well, I shall just send my courier out for it, that’s all!” So, with, that, they brought me some—­and anything more delicious I never tasted in all my life!