[_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.

_Mr. C.S._ Is it possible! I have come across so many people while
I've been away that--but surely we have met _somewhere_? Why, of
course, Sir JOHN JUBBER! you must pardon me, SIR JOHN--