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 in 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——
READS WITH A GRADUALLY LENGTHENING COUNTENANCE.
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 scandalized 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——?