Culch. Nonsense, you’re well enough.  And why you should feel low, with all your advantages—­in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift!

Podb. Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?

Culch. If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense.  Every earnest nature presents an—­er—­priggish side at times.  I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn’t know me, of course, been charged with priggishness.

Podb. Have you, though?  But of course there’s nothing of that about her.  Only—­well, it don’t signify. [He sighs.

Culch. Ah, PODBURY, take the good the gods provide you and be content!  You might be worse off, believe me!

Podb. (discontentedly).  It’s all very well for you to talk—­with Miss TROTTER all to yourself.  I suppose you’re regularly engaged by this time, eh?

Culch. Not quite.  There’s still a ——.  And your probation, that’s practically at an end?

Podb. I don’t know.  Can’t make her out.  She wouldn’t sit on me the way she does unless she liked me, I suppose.  But I say, it must be awf—­rather jolly for you with Miss TROTTER?  She’s got so much go, eh?

Culch. You used to say she wasn’t what you call cultivated.

Podb. I know I did.  That’s just what I like about her!  At least—­well, we both ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky beggars, I’m sure! [He sighs more heavily than ever.

Culch. You especially, my dear PODBURY.  In fact, I doubt if you’re half grateful enough!

Podb. (snappishly).  Yes, I am, I tell you. I’m not grumbling, am I?  I know as well as you do she’s miles too good for me.  Haven’t I said so?  Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?

Culch. I am glad you see it in that light.  Aren’t you a little irritable to-night?

Podb. No, I’m not.  It’s those filthy canals.  And the way you talk—­as if a girl like Miss TROTTER wasn’t—!

Culch. I really can’t allow you to lecture me.  I am not insensible to my good-fortune—­if others are.  Now we’ll drop the subject.

Podb. I’m willing enough to drop it.  And I shall turn in now—­it’s late.  You coming?

Culch. Not yet.  Good-night. (To himself, as PODBURY departs.) You insensate dolt!

Podb. Good-night! (To himself, as he swings off.) Confounded patronising prig!

* * * * *

HUMPTY-DUMPTY UP AGAIN!

[Illustration:  Little Tich and the Fine Fairy.]