you, but I
just want to speak to you for a minute, if Miss TROTTER will excuse
us. Is there any particular point in going as far as Bingen to-night,
eh?

_Culch._ (_resignedly_). As much as there is in not going farther than
somewhere else, _I_ should have thought.

_Podb._ Well, but look here--why not stop at Bacharach, and see what
sort of a place it is?

_Culch._ You forget that our time is limited if we're going to stick
to our original route.

_Podb._ Yes, of course; mustn't waste any on the Rhine. Suppose we
push on to Maintz to-night, and get the Rhine off our hands then?
(_With a glance at Miss TROTTER._) The sooner I've done with this
steamer business the better!

_Miss T._ Well, Mr. PODBURY, that's not a vurry complimentary remark
to make before me!

_Podb._ We've seen so little of one another lately that it can hardly
make much difference--to _either_ of us--can it?

_Miss T._ Now I call that real kind, you're consoling me in advance!

_The Steward_ (_coming up_). De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen!
(_examining_ CULCHARD's _coupons_). For Bingen--so?

_Culch. I_ am. This gentleman gets off--is it Bacharach or Maintz,
PODBURY?

_Podb._ (_sulkily_). Neither, as it happens. I'm for Bingen, too, as
you won't go anywhere else. Though you _did_ say when we started, that
the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop
just as the fancy took us!

_Culch._ (_calmly_). I did, my dear PODBURY. But it never occurred to
me that the fancy would take you to get tired of a place before you
got there!

_Podb._ (_as he walks forwards_). Hang that fellow! I know I shall
punch his head some day. And She didn't seem to care whether I stayed
or not. (_Hopefully._) But you never _can_ tell with women!

[_He returns to his camp-stool and the letter-reading Old
Ladies._

* * * * *

A SONG IN SEASON.

'Twas the autumn time, dear love,
The English autumn weather;
And, oh, it was sweet, it was hard to beat
As we sailed that day together!
It was cold when we started out,
As we noted with sad surprise;
And the tip of your nose was as blue, I suppose,
As the blue of your dear, dear eyes.

We sailed to Hampton Court,
And the sun had burnt us black;
Then we dodged a shower for the half of an hour,
And then we skated back;
Till the weather grew depressed
At the shifting state of its luck,
And the glas