Mosquito (ironically, in his ear). Ping-a-wing-wing!
Same Scene; the next morning.
Culch. (drawing PODBURY's curtains). Here, wake up, PODBURY—it's just eight. (PODBURY sits up, and rubs his eyes.) I've had a horrible night, my dear fellow! I'm stung to such an extent! But (hopefully) I suppose there's nothing to show particularly, eh? [Presenting his countenance for inspection.
Podb. Not much of your original features, old fellow! (He roars with laughter.) You've got a pair of cheeks like a raised map!
Culch. It—it's going down. Nothing to what it was, half an hour ago!
Podb. Then I'm jolly glad you didn't call me earlier, that's all!
Culch. It does feel a little inflamed. I wonder if I could get a little—er—violet powder, or something—?
Podb. (with a painful want of sympathy). Violet powder! Buy a blue veil—a good thick one!
Culch. What sort of impression do you suppose I should get of Venice with a blue veil on?
Podb. Can't say—but a pleasanter one than Venice will get of you without it. You don't mean to face the fair Miss TROTTER while you're like that, do you?