_Culch._ (_producing a note-book_). It's fanciful, perhaps but, if you
don't mind waiting a little, I should like to contribute--not my card,
but a sonnet. I feel one on its way.

_Bob P._ Better make sure the tomb's _genuine_ first, hadn't you? Some
say it _isn't_.

_Culch._ (_exasperated_). I _knew_ you'd make some matter-of-fact
remark of that kind! There--it's no use! Let us go.

_Miss T._ Why, your sonnets seem as skeery as those lizards there! I
hope JULIET won't ever know what she's missed. But likely you'll mail
those verses on to her later.

[_She and BOB P. pass on, laughing._

_Culch._ (_following_). She only affects this vulgar flippancy to
torment me. If I didn't know _that_--There, I've left that infernal
pot behind now!

[_Goes back for it, wrathfully._

_In the Amphitheatre; Miss PRENDERGAST, PODBURY, and VAN
BOODELER, are seated on an upper tier._

_Podb._ (_meditatively_). I suppose they charged highest for the
lowest seats. Wonder whether a lion ever nipped up and helped himself
to some fat old buffer in the Stalls when the martyrs turned out a
leaner lot than usual!