Bob P. You may; but you might give Miss TROTTER and me a chance, you know!
The Cic. Zees, Marmor di Carrara; zat, Marmor di Verona—Verona marbre. MARTINO PRIMO a fait bàtir. (Counting on his fingers for CULCHARD's benefit.) Quattuor dichièmé secolo—fotteen!
Culch. Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of estimating the precise period of this sculpture for myself.
The Cic. Si-si, Signore. Scultore BONINO DA CAMPIGLIONE. (With a wriggle of deferential enthusiasm.) Bellissimo scultore!
Miss T. He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr. CULCHARD, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it in Italian.
Culch. I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that I can willingly dispense with his society. (To the Cic.) Andate via—do you understand? An-da-te via!
The Cic. (hurt, and surprised). Ah, Signore!
[He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide, philosopher, and friend.
Miss T. I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. CULCHARD, will you give him a couple of francs for me?
Culch. I—er—really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to deserve it!