Podb. Oh, don't mind me. I'm getting over it. But I must congratulate you on better luck.
Culch. On precisely similar luck. Miss Trotter and I—er—arrived at the conclusion last night that we were not formed to make each other's happiness.
Podb. Did you, by Jove? Porter, I say, never mind about that luggage. Do you happen to know if Mr. and Miss Trotter—the American gentleman and his daughter—are down yet?
Porter. Trodders? Led me see, yes, zey ged zeir preakfast early, and start two hours since for Murano and Torcello.
Podb. Torcello? Why, that's where Bob and Miss Prendergast talked of going to-day! Culchard, old fellow, I've changed my mind. Shan't leave to-day, after all. I shall just nip over and see what sort of place Torcello is.
Culch. Torcello—"the Mother of Venice!" it really seems a pity to go away without having seen it. Do you know, Podbury, I think I'll join you!
Podb. (not over cordially). Come along, then—only look sharp. Sure you don't mind? Miss Trotter will be there, you know!
Culch. Exactly; and so—I think you said—will the—er—Prendergasts. (To Porter.) Just get us a gondola and two rowers, will you, for Torcello. And tell them to row as fast as they can!