Podb. I don't care. I can find a pot-house somewhere, I daresay.
The Pale-haired Lady (in excellent English, to PODBURY as he passes out). Pardon me, you will find close to the Bahnhof a very goot hotel—the Wurtemburger.
[PODBURY thanks her and alights in some confusion; the Lady sinks back, smiling.
Culch. (annoyed). She must have understood every word we said! Are you in earnest over this? (PODBURY nods grimly.) Well, you'll soon get tired of your own society, I warn you.
Podb. Thanks, we shall see.
[He saunters off with his bag: CULCHARD shrugs his shoulders, and goes in search of the Bayrischer-Hof Porter, to whom he entrusts his luggage tickets, and takes his seat in the omnibus alone.
"ANGELS AND MINISTERS OF GRACE!"
["The London Correspondent of the Manchester Guardian hears that certain ungallant Members of Parliament are threatening at the beginning of next Session to make a formal protest against the wholesale admission of ladies to the precincts of the House.">[
Ungallant! Vastly fine! But when they crowd