Culch. Good Heavens, no—what a very grotesque idea of yours, my dear fellow! [He laughs gently.
Podb. Is it? You always gave out that she wasn't your style at all, and you only regarded her as a "study," and rot like that. How could I tell you would go and cut me out?
Culch. I don't deny that she occasionally—er—jarred. She is a little deficient in surface refinement—but that will come, that will come. And as to "cutting you out," why, you must allow you never had the remotest——
Podb. I don't allow anything of the sort. She liked me well enough till—till you came in and set her against me, and you may think it friendly if you like, but I call it shabby—confoundedly shabby.
Culch. Don't talk so loud, I'm sure I saw that woman smile!
Podb. She may smile her head off for all I care. (The train stops;the Cripple and all but the Pale-haired Lady get out.) Here we are at Nuremberg. What hotel did you say you are going to?
Culch. The Bayrischer-Hof. Why?
[He gets his coat and stick, &c., out of the rack.
Podb. Because I shall go to some other, that's all.
Culch. (in dismay). My dear Podbury, this is really too childish! There's no sense in travelling together, if we're going to stay at different hotels!