Miss T. They’re handsome tombs enough—­but considerable cramped.  I should have thought these old Scallywags would have looked around for a roomier burying lot. (To CULCHARD, who shivers.) You aren’t feeling sick any?

Culch. No—­only pained by such a travesty of a noble name.  “Scallywags” for SCALIGERS seems to me, if I may say so, a very cheap form of humour!

Miss T. Well, it’s more than cheap—­it isn’t going to cost you a cent, so I should think you’d appreciate it!

Bob P. Haw—­score for you, Miss TROTTER!

Culch. I should have thought myself that mere personality is hardly enough to give point to any repartee—­there is a slight difference between brilliancy and—­er—­brutality!

Bob P. Hullo!  You and I are being sat upon pretty heavily, Miss TROTTER.

Miss T. I guess our Schoolmaster’s abroad.  But why Mr. CULCHARD should want to make himself a train out of my coverlets, I don’t just see—­he looks majestic enough without that.

    [CULCHARD catches up a blanket which is trailing, and says
    bad words under his breath.

AT THE TOMB OF JULIET.

Culch. (who is gradually recovering his equanimity).  Think of it! the actual spot on which Romeo and Juliet—­SHAKSPEARE’s Juliet—­drew their last breath!  Does it not realise the tragedy for you?

Miss T. Well, no—­it’s a disappointing tomb.  I reckoned it would look less like a horse-trough.  I should have expected Juliet’s Poppa and Momma would want, considering all the facts of the case, to throw more style into her monument!

Culch. (languidly).  May not its very simplicity—­er—­attest the sincerity of their remorse?

Miss T. Do you attach any particular meaning to that observation now? (CULCHARD bites his lip.) I notice this tomb is full of visiting cards—­my! but ain’t that curious?

Culch. (instructively).  It only shows that this place is not without its pathos and interest for most visitors, no matter what their nationality may be.  You don’t feel inclined yourself to—?

Miss T. To leave a pasteboard?  Why I shouldn’t sleep any all night, for fear she’d return my call!

Culch. (producing a note-book).  It’s fanciful, perhaps but, if you don’t mind waiting a little, I should like to contribute—­not my card, but a sonnet.  I feel one on its way.

Bob P. Better make sure the tomb’s genuine first, hadn’t you?  Some say it isn’t.

Culch. (exasperated).  I knew you’d make some matter-of-fact remark of that kind!  There—­it’s no use!  Let us go.

Miss T. Why, your sonnets seem as skeery as those lizards there!  I hope JULIET won’t ever know what she’s missed.  But likely you’ll mail those verses on to her later.