_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? _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._ * * * * * THE WRONG OF SEARCH. (_A DREAM OF THE BRITISH INQUISITION._) The unfortunate foreigner, travel-stained and suffering from the after-glow of a stormy passage, crawled up the gangway and was once more on land. He carried in his hand a portmanteau. "Have you anything to declare?" asked an official, in a gold-peaked cap and blue frock coat, gruffly. "Only that your seas are terrible," was the reply. The official made no answer, but merely pointed to some planks that had been placed upon trestles. The foreigner glanced at the people who were standing in front of these planks, and noticed that they were pale with apprehension. "Have you anything to declare?" was a second time uttered--now by a person less gold-laced. Then the official continued, "Here, open it!"