Podb. Ah, you shouldn't have touched those mussels they gave us with the sole. Have a nip of this cognac, and you'll soon be all right.
[Culchard scribbles in lofty abstraction; Podbury hums; Mr. Cyrus K. Trotter, and his daughter, Maud S. Trotter, come out by the glass door of the Salon de Lecture, and seat themselves at an adjoining table.
Miss Trotter. Well, I guess it's gayer out here, anyway. That Reading Saloon is just about as lively as a burying lot with all the tombs unlet. I want the address of that man who said that Brussels was a second Parrus.
Mr. Trotter. Maybe we ain't been long enough off the cars to jedge yet. Do you feel like putting on your hat and sack, and sorter smellin' round this capital?
Miss T. Not any. I expect the old city will have to curb its impatience to see me till to-morrow. I'm tired some.
Culch. (to himself). Confound it, how can I——! (Looks up, and observes Miss T. with a sudden attention.) That fellow Podbury has better taste than I gave him credit for. She is pretty—in her peculiar style—quite pretty! Pity she speaks with that deplorable accent.
[Writes—"Vermilion lips that sheathe a parrot tongue," and runs over all the possible rhymes to "tongue."
Podb. (observing that his pencil is idle). Gas cut off again? Come for a toddle. You don't mean to stick here all the evening, eh?
Culch. Well, we might take a turn later on, and see the effect of St. Gudule in the moonlight.
Podb. Something like a rollick that! But what do you say to dropping in quietly at the Eden for an hour or so, eh? Variety show and all that going on.
Culch. Thanks—variety shows are not much in my line; but don't mind me if you want to go.
[Podbury wanders off, leaving Culchard free to observe Miss Trotter.
Miss T. Charley writes he's having a lovely time in Germany going round. I guess he isn't feeling so cheap as he did. I wish he'd come along right here.
Mr. T. I presume he's put in all the time he had for Belgium—likely we'll fetch up against him somewhere before he's through.
Miss T. Well, and I don't care how soon we do, either. Charley's a bright man, and real cultivated. I'm always telling him that he's purrfectly splendid company, considering he's only a cousin.
Mr. T. That's so every time. I like Charley Van Boodeler firstrate myself.
Culch. (to himself). If Charley Van Boodeler was engaged to her, I suppose he'd be there. Pshaw! What does it matter? Somehow, I rather wish now that I'd—but perhaps we shall get into conversation presently. Hang it, here's that fellow Podbury back again! Wish to goodness he'd——(To Podbury.) Hallo, so you haven't started yet?
Podb. Been having a talk with the porter. He says there's a big fair over by the Station du Midi, and it's worth seeing. Are you game to come along and sample it, eh?
Culch. (with an easy indifference intended for Miss T.'s benefit). No, I think not, thanks. I'm very comfortable where I am.
[He resumes his writing.
Podb. Well, it's poor fun having to go alone!
[He is just going, when Mr. Trotter rises and comes towards him.
Mr. T. You'll excuse me, Sir, but did I overhear you remark that there was a festivity in progress in this city?
Podb. So I'm told; a fair, down in the new part. I could tell you how to get to it, if you thought of going.
Mr. T. Well, I don't see how I should ever strike that fair for myself, and I guess if there's anything to be seen we're bound to see it, so me and my darter—allow me to introduce my darter to you—Maud, this gentleman is Mr.—I don't think I've caught your name, Sir—Podbury?—Mr. Podbury, who's kindly volunteered to conduct us round.
Miss T. I should have thought you'd want to leave the gentleman some say in the matter, father—not to mention me!
Podb. (eagerly). But won't you come? Do. I shall be awfully glad if you will!
Miss T. If it makes you so glad as all that, I believe I'll come. Though what you could say different, after Poppa had put it up so steep on you, I don't know. I'll just go and fix myself first. [She goes.
Mr. T. (to Podbury). My only darter, Sir, and a real good girl. We come over from the States, crossed a month ago to-day, and seen a heap already. Been runnin' all over Scotland and England, and kind of looked round Ireland and Wales, and now what we've got to do is to see as much as we can of Germany and Switzerland and It'ly, and get some idea of France before we start home this fall. I guess we're both of us gettin' pretty considerable homesick already. My darter was sayin' to me on'y this evening at table d'hôte, "Father," she sez, "the vurry first thing we'll do when we get home is to go and hev a good square meal of creamed oysters and clams with buckwheat cakes and maple syrup." Don't seem as if we could git along without maple syrup much longer. (Miss Trotter returns.) You never mean going out without your gums?
[He roars.
Miss T. I guess it's not damp here—any. (To Podbury.) Now you're going to be Mary, and father and I have got to be the little lambs and follow you around.
[They go out, leaving Culchard annoyed with himself and everybody else, and utterly unable to settle down to his sonnet again.
IN AN UPPER CORRIDOR TWO HOURS LATER.
Culch. (coming upon Podbury). So you've got rid of your Americans at last, eh?
Podb. I was in no hurry, I can tell you. She's a ripping little girl—tremendous fun. What do you think she asked me about you?
Culch. (stiff, but flattered). I wasn't aware she had honoured me by her notice. What was it?
Podb. Said you had a sort of schoolmaster look, and wanted to know if you were my tutor. My tutor! [He roars.
Culch. I hope you—ah—undeceived her?
Podb. Rather! Told her it was t'other way round, and I was looking after you. Said you were suffering from melancholia, but were not absolutely dangerous.
Culch. If that's your idea of a joke, all I can say is——
[He chokes with rage.
Podb. (innocently). Why, my dear chap, I thought you wanted 'em kept out of your way!
[Culchard slams his bedroom door with temper, leaving Podbury outside, still chuckling.
CHAPTER III.
Culchard comes out of his Shell.
Scene—On the Coach from Braine l'Alleud to Waterloo. The vehicle has a Belgian driver, but the conductor is a true-born Briton. Mr. Cyrus K. Trotter and his daughter are behind with Podbury. Culchard, who is not as yet sufficiently on speaking terms with his friend to ask for an introduction, is on the box-seat in front.
Mr. Trotter. How are you getting along, Maud? Your seat pretty