Prend. I'd do something. Why can't you tell him right out he ain't wanted? I would—like a shot!
Podb. It's not so easy to tell him as you think. We haven't been on speaking terms these three days. And, after all (feebly) we're supposed to be travelling together, don't you know! You might drop him a hint now.
Prend. Don't see how I can very well—not on my own hook. Might lead to ructions with Hypatia, too.
Podb. (anxiously). Bob, you—you don't think your sister really——eh?
Prend. Hypatia's a rum girl—always was. She certainly don't seem to object to your friend Culchard. What the dickens she can see in him, I don't know!—but it's no use my putting my oar in. She'd only jump on me, y'know!
Podb. (rising). Then I must. If that's what he's really after, I think I can stop his little game. I'll try, at any rate. It's a long worm that has no turning, and I've had about enough of it. The first chance I get, I'll go for him.
Prend. Good luck to you, old chap. There, they're coming in now. We'd better go in and change, eh? We've none too much time.
[They go in.
In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing. Culchard is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering the jokes in "Fliegende Blätter." Podbury is at the bookcase, turning over odd Tauchnitz volumes.
The Chaplain's Wife (to the Curate, a new arrival). Oh, you will very soon get into all our little ways. The hours here are most convenient—breakfast (table d'hôte) with choice of eggs or fish and coffee—really admirable coffee—from eight to nine; midday dinner at one. Supper at nine. Then, if you want to write a letter, the post for England goes out—(&c., &c.) And on Sundays, eleven o'clock service (Evangelical, of course!) at the——(&c., &c.,) My husband——(&c., &c.)