The Others.  Well, I dunno as it’s worth the extry sixpence, come to think of it. (They pass on, contentedly.)

Jem.  We’re on the Rialto Bridge now, LIZZIE, d’ye see?  The one in SHAKSPEARE, you know.

Lizzie.  That’s the one they call the “Bridge o’ Sighs,” ain’t it? (Hazily.) Is that because there’s shops on it?

Jem.  I dessay.  Shops—­or else suicides.

Lizzie (more hazily than ever).  Ah, the same as the Monument. (They walk on with a sense of mental enlargement.)

Mrs. Lavender Salt.  It’s wonderfully like the real thing, LAVENDER, isn’t it?  Of course they can’t quite get the true Venetian atmosphere!

Mr. L.S. Well, MIMOSA, they’d have the Sanitary Authorities down on them if they did, you know!

Mrs. L.S. Oh, you’re so horribly unromantic!  But, LAVENDER, couldn’t we get one of those gondolas and go about.  It would be so lovely to be in one again, and fancy ourselves back in dear Venice, now wouldn’t it?

Mr. L.S. The illusion is cheap at sixpence; so come along, MIMOSA!

[He secures, tickets, and presently the LAVENDER SALTS, find themselves part of a long queue, being marshalled between barriers by Italian gendarmes in a state of politely suppressed amusement.

Mrs. L.S. (over her shoulder to her husband, as she imagines).  I’d no idea we should have to go through all this!  Must we really herd in with all these people?  Can’t we two manage to get a gondola all to ourselves?

A Voice (not LAVENDER’s—­in her ear).  I’m sure I’m ’ighly flattered, Mum, but I’m already suited; yn’t I, DYSY?

    [DYSY corroborates his statement with unnecessary emphasis.

A Sturdy Democrat (in front, over his shoulder).  Pity yer didn’t send word you was coming, Mum, and then they’d ha’ kep’ the place clear of us common people for yer! [Mrs. L.S. is sorry she spoke.

IN THE GONDOLA.—­Mr. and Mrs. L.S. are seated in the back seat, supported on one side by the Humorous ’ARRY and his Fiancee, and on the other by a pale, bloated youth, with a particularly rank cigar, and the Sturdy Democrat, whose two small boys occupy the seat in front.

The St. Dem. (with malice aforethought).  If you two lads ain’t got room there, I dessay this lady won’t mind takin’ one of yer on her lap. (To Mrs. L.S., who is frozen with horror at the suggestion.) They’re ’umin beans, Mum, like yerself!

Mrs. L.S. (desperately ignoring her other neighbours).  Isn’t that lovely balcony there copied from the one at the Pisani, LAVENDER—­or is it the Contarini?  I forget.

Mr. L.S. Don’t remember—­got the Rialto rather well, haven’t they?  I suppose that’s intended for the dome of the Salute down there—­not quite the outline, though, if I remember right.  And, if that’s the Campanile of St. Mark, the colour’s too brown, eh?