Porter. Goot afternoon, Schendlemen. You have a bleasant dimes at Torcello, yes? Ach! you haf gif your gondoliers vifdeen franc? Zey schvindle you, oal ze gondoliers alvays schvindles eferypody, yes! Zere is som ledders for you. I vetch zem. [He bustles away.
Mr. Bellerby (suddenly emerging from a recess in the entrance, as he recognises CULCHARD). Why bless me, there's a face I know! Met at Lugano, didn't we? To be sure—very pleasant chat we had too! So you're at Venice, eh? I know every stone of it by heart, as I needn't say. The first time I was ever at Venice—
Culch. (taking a bulky envelope from the Porter). Just so—how are you? Er—will you excuse me?
[He opens the envelope and finds a blue official-looking enclosure, which he reads with a gradually lengthening countenance.
Mr. B. (as CULCHARD thrusts the letter angrily into his pocket). You're new to Venice, I think? Well, just let me give you a word of advice. Now you are here—you make them give you some tunny. Insist on it, Sir. Why, when I was here first—
Culch. (impatiently). I know. I mean, you told me that before. And I have tasted tunny.
Mr. B. Ha! well, what did you think of it? Delicious, eh?
Culch. (forgetting all his manners). Beastly, Sir, beastly! [Leaves the scandalised Mr. B. abruptly, and rushes off to get a telegram form at the bureau.
Mr. Crawley Strutt (pouncing on PODBURY in the hall, as he finishes the perusal of his letter). Excuse me—but surely I have the honour of addressing Lord GEORGE GUMBLETON? You may perhaps just recollect, my Lord—?
Podb. (blankly). Think you've made a mistake, really.