+Podbury insists on an Explanation.+ SCENE--_A flight of steps by the lake in the grounds of the Insel Hotel, Constance. Time, late afternoon. A small boat, containing three persons, is just visible far out on the glassy grey-green water._ BOB PRENDERGAST _and_ PODBURY _are perched side by side on a parapet, smoking disconsolately._ PODBURY. Do they look at all as if they meant to come in? I tell you what, Bob, I vote we row out to them and tell them they'll be late for _table d'hote_. Eh? [_He knocks out his pipe._ PRENDERGAST (_phlegmatically_). Only be late for it ourselves if we do. They'll come in when they want to. PODB. It's not safe for your sister,--I'm hanged if it is--going out in a boat with a duffer like Culchard! He'll upset her as sure as eggs. PREND. (_with fraternal serenity_). With pin-oars? Couldn't if he tried! And they've a man with them, too. The less I see of that chap Culchard the better. I did hope we'd choked him off at Nuremberg. I hate the sight of his supercilious old mug! PODB. You can't hate it more than I do--but what can I do? (_Pathetically_.) I've tried rotting him, but somehow he always manages to get the best of it in the end. I never saw such a beggar to hang on! PREND. What on earth made you ask him to come on here, after he declared he wouldn't? PODB. I! _I_ ask him? He settled it all with your sister. How could _I_ help it? PREND. I'd do _something_. Why can't you tell him right out he ain't wanted? _I_ would--like a shot! PODB. It's not so easy to tell him as you think. We haven't been on speaking terms these three days. And, after all (_feebly_) we're supposed to be travelling together, don't you know! _You_ might drop him a hint now. PREND. Don't see how I can very well--not on my own hook. Might lead to ructions with Hypatia, too. PODB. (_anxiously_). Bob, you--you don't think your sister really----eh? PREND. Hypatia's a rum girl--always was. She certainly don't seem to object to your friend Culchard. What the dickens she can see in him, I don't know!--but it's no use my putting _my_ oar in. She'd only jump on _me_, y'know! PODB. (_rising_). Then I _must_. If that's what he's really after, I think I can stop his little game. I'll try, at any rate. It's a long worm that has no turning, and I've had about enough of it. The first chance I get, I'll go for him. PREND. Good luck to you, old chap. There, they're coming in now. We'd better go in and change, eh? We've none too much time. [_They go in._ _In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing._ CULCHARD _is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering the jokes in "Fliegende Blaetter_." PODBURY _is at the bookcase, turning over odd Tauchnitz volumes._