Culch. That has its charms, no doubt. But don't you find Miss PRENDERGAST a mine of information on Italian Art and History?
Podb. Don't I just—rather too deep for me, y' know! I say, isn't Miss TROTTER immense sport in the shops and that!
Culch. She is—er—vivacious, certainly. (PODBURY sighs.) You seem rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?
Podb. Not dull—a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly back-courts and canals and in stuffy churches—it can't be healthy, you know! And they've no drainage. I only hope I haven't caught something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general lowness—She says I lunch too heavily—but I swear it's more than that!
Culch. Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low, with all your advantages—in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift!
Podb. Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?
Culch. If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense. Every earnest nature presents an—er—priggish side at times. I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't know me, of course, been charged with priggishness.
Podb. Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about her. Only—well, it don't signify. [He sighs.
Culch. Ah, PODBURY, take the good the gods provide you and be content! You might be worse off, believe me!