_On the Grand Canal._ 9 P.M. _A brilliant moonlight night; a music-barge, hung with coloured lanterns, is moving slowly up towards the Rialto, surrounded and followed by a fleet of gondolas, amongst which is one containing the_ TROTTERS _and_ CULCHARD. CULCHARD _has just discovered--with an embarrassment not wholly devoid of a certain excitement--that they are drawing up to a gondola occupied by the_ PRENDERGASTS _and_ PODBURY. MR. TROTTER (_meditatively_). It's real romantic. That's the third deceased kitten I've seen to-night. They haven't only a two-foot tide in the Adriatic, and it stands to reason all the sewage---- [_The two gondolas are jammed close alongside._ MISS P. How absolutely magical those palaces look in the moonlight! Bob, how _can_ you yawn like that? BOB. I beg your pardon, Patia, really, but we've had rather a long day of it, you know! MR. T. Well, now, I declare I sort of recognised those voices! (_Heartily._) Why, how are _you_ getting along in Vernis? _We_'re gettin' along fust-rate. Say, Maud, here's your friend alongside! [MISS P. _presents a stony silence_. MISS T. (_in an undertone_). I don't see how you _can_ act so, Poppa,--when you know she's just as _mad_ with me! MR. T. There! Dumned if I didn't clean forget you were out! But, see here, now--why cann't we let bygones be bygones? BOB. (_impulsively_). Just what _I_ think, Mr. Trotter, and I'm sure my sister will---- MISS P. Bob, will you kindly not make the situation more awkward than it is? If I desired a reconciliation, I think I am quite capable of saying so! 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 any one yet to feel an interest in the great Amurrcan Novel. It's curious how interested people do get in that novel, considering it's none of it written, and never will be. I guess sometimes he makes them believe he means something by it. They don't understand it's only Charley's way!