_Miss T._ (_in confidence to the Moon_). This Ark isn't proposing to
send out any old dove, either--we've no use for an olive-branch. (_To_
Mr. T.) That's "_Santa Lucia_" they're singing now, Poppa.

_Mr. T._ They don't appear to me to get the twist on it they did at
Bellagio!

_Miss T._ You mean that night CHARLEY took us out on the Lake?
Poor CHARLEY! he'd just love to be here--he's ever so much artistic
feeling!

_Mr. T._ Well, I don't see why he couldn't have come along if he'd
wanted.

_Miss T._ (_with a glance at her neighbour_). I presume he'd reasons
enough. He's a vurry cautious man. Likely he was afraid he'd get
bitten.

_Miss P._ (_after a swift scrutiny of Miss T.'s features_). Oh, BOB,
remind me to get some more of that mosquito stuff. I _should_ so hate
to be bitten--such a _dreadful_ disfigurement!

_Miss T._ (_to the Moon_). I declare if I don't believe I can feel
some creature trying to sting me now!

_Miss P._ Some people are hardly recognisable, BOB, and they say the
marks never _quite_ disappear!

_Miss T._ Poppa, don't you wonder what CHARLEY's doing just now? I'd
like to know if he's found anyone yet to feel an interest in the great