Culch. I am no more conscious of “jawing” than “jabbering,” and if that is how I am to be spoken to—!

Podb. I know.  Look here, it’s no use.  You must go to Florence by yourself.  I simply don’t feel up to it, and that’s the truth.  I shall just potter about here, till—­till they go.

Culch. As you choose.  I gave you the opportunity—­out of kindness.  If you prefer to make yourself ridiculous by hanging about here, it’s no concern of mine.  I daresay I shall enjoy Florence at least as well by myself.

    [He sulks until they arrive at the Hotel Dandolo, where they
    are received on the steps by the Porter.

Porter.  Goot afternoon, Schendlemen.  You have a bleasant dimes at Torcello, yes?  Ach! you haf gif your gondoliers vifdeen franc?  Zey schvindle you, oal ze gondoliers alvays schvindles eferypody, yes!  Zere is som ledders for you.  I vetch zem. [He bustles away.

Mr. Bellerby (suddenly emerging from a recess in the entrance, as he recognises CULCHARD).  Why bless me, there’s a face I know!  Met at Lugano, didn’t we?  To be sure—­very pleasant chat we had too!  So you’re at Venice, eh?  I know every stone of it by heart, as I needn’t say.  The first time I was ever at Venice—­

Culch. (taking a bulky envelope from the Porter).  Just so—­how are you?  Er—­will you excuse me?

    [He opens the envelope and finds a blue official-looking
    enclosure, which he reads with a gradually lengthening
    countenance.

Mr. B. (as CULCHARD thrusts the letter angrily into his pocket).  You’re new to Venice, I think?  Well, just let me give you a word of advice.  Now you are here—­you make them give you some tunny.  Insist on it, Sir.  Why, when I was here first—­

Culch. (impatiently).  I know.  I mean, you told me that before.  And I have tasted tunny.

Mr. B. Ha! well, what did you think of it? Delicious, eh?

Culch. (forgetting all his manners).  Beastly, Sir, beastly! [Leaves the scandalised Mr. B. abruptly, and rushes off to get a telegram form at the bureau.

Mr. Crawley Strutt (pouncing on PODBURY in the hall, as he finishes the perusal of his letter).  Excuse me—­but surely I have the honour of addressing Lord GEORGE GUMBLETON?  You may perhaps just recollect, my Lord—?

Podb. (blankly).  Think you’ve made a mistake, really.

Mr. C.S. Is it possible!  I have come across so many people while I’ve been away that—­but surely we have met somewhere?  Why, of course, Sir JOHN JUBBER! you must pardon me, SIR JOHN—­

Podb. (recognizing him).  My name’s PODBURY—­plain PODBURY, but you’re quite right.  You have met me—­and you’ve met my bootmaker too.  “Lord UPPERSOLE,” eh?  That’s where the mistake came in!