[CULCHARD scribbles in lofty abstraction; PODBURY hums; Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER, and his daughter, MAUD S. TROTTER, come out by the glass door of the Salon de Lecture, and seat themselves at an adjoining table.
Miss Trotter. Well, I guess it's gayer out here, anyway. That Reading Saloon is just about as lively as a burying lot with all the tombs unlet. I want the address of that man who said that Brussels was a second Parrus.
Mr. Trotter. Maybe we ain't been long enough off the cars to jedge yet. Do you feel like putting on your hat and sack, and sorter smellin' round this capital?
Miss T. Not any. I expect the old city will have to curb its impatience to see me till to-morrow. I'm tired some.
Culch. (to himself). Confound it, how can I—! (Looks up, and observes Miss T. with a sudden attention). That fellow PODBURY has better taste than I gave him credit for. She is pretty—in her peculiar style—quite pretty! Pity she speaks with that deplorable accent.
[Writes—"Vermilion lips that sheathe a parrot tongue," and runs over all the possible rhymes to "tongue."
Podb. (observing that his pencil is idle). Gas cut off again? Come for a toddle. You don't mean to stick here all the evening, eh?
Culch. Well, we might take a turn later on, and see the effect of St. Gudule in the moonlight.
Podb. Something like a rollick that! But what do you say to dropping in quietly at the Eden for an hour or so, eh? Variety show and all that going on.
Culch. Thanks—variety shows are not much in my line; but don't mind me if you want to go.