SCENE--_The Tombs of the_ SCALIGERS _at Verona. A seedy and voluble Cicerone, who has insisted upon volunteering his services, is accompanying_ MISS TROTTER, BOB PRENDERGAST, _and_ CULCHARD. _It is a warm afternoon, and_ CULCHARD, _who has been intrusted with_ MISS T.'S _recent purchases--two Italian blankets, and a huge pot of hammered copper--is not in the most amiable of moods._ THE CICERONE (_in polyglot_). Ecco, Signore (_pointing out the interlaced ladders in the wrought-iron railings_), l'echelle, la scala, c'est tout flexible--(_He shakes the trellis_)--molto, molto curioso! CULCH. (_bitterly, to the other two_). I _warned_ you how it would be! We shall have this sort of thing all the afternoon _now_! MISS T. Well, I don't mind; he's real polite and obliging--and that's something, anyway! CULCH. Polite and obliging! Now I _ask_ you--has he given us the slightest atom of valuable information _yet_? MISS T. I guess he's too full of tact to wish to interfere with your special department. THE CIC. (_to_ CULCHARD, _who looks another way_). Ici le tombeau di Giovanni della Scala, Signore. Verri grazioso, molto magnifique, joli conserve! (_He skips up on the pedestal, and touches a sarcophagus._) Non bronzo--verde-antique! [_Nods at_ CULCHARD, _with a beaming smile_. CULCH. (_with a growl_). Va bene, va bene--_we_ know all about it! BOB P. _You_ may; but you might give Miss Trotter and me a chance, you know! THE CIC. Zees, Marmor di Carrara; _zat_, Marmor di Verona--Verona marbre. Martino Primo a fait batir. (_Counting on his fingers for_ CULCHARD'S _benefit_.) Quattuor dichieme secolo--_fotteen_! [Illustration: "BELLISSIMO SCULTORE!"] CULCH. Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of estimating the precise period of this sculpture for myself. THE CIC. Si-si, Signore. Scultore Bonino da Campiglione. (_With a wriggle of deferential enthusiasm._) Bellissimo scultore! MISS T. He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr. Culchard, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it in Italian. CULCH. I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that I can willingly dispense with his society. (_To the_ CIC.) Andate via--do you understand? An-da-te _via_! THE CIC. (_hurt, and surprised_). Ah, Signore! [_He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide, philosopher, and friend._ MISS T. I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. Culchard, will you give him a couple of francs for me? CULCH. I--er--really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to deserve it! BOB P. (_eagerly_). May _I_, Miss Trotter? (_Producing a ten-lire note._) This is the smallest change I've got. MISS T. No, I guess ten francs would start him with more self-respect than he's got any use for. Mr. Culchard will give him three--that's one apiece--to punish him for being so real mean!