Chapter I: Act IV: Scene I. Ventimore's Rooms (1)

SCENE II. "PINAFORE" ROOM, SAVOY HOTEL

_There will be an Interval of One Minute between Scenes I and II, during which the Audience are requested to keep their seats._

The Scenery painted by WALTER HANN AND SON.

The Play has been Produced (for MR. GASTON MAYER) by MR. FREDERICK KERR.

The Amateur fee for each and every representation of this play is five guineas, payable in advance to the Author's Sole Agents, Messrs. Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.

_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

HORACE VENTIMORE (a young Architect, aged 28) PROFESSOR ANTHONY FUTVOYE (an Egyptologist, aged 60) FAKRASH-EL-AAMASH (a Jinnee of the Green Jinn, age uncertain) SPENCER PRINGLE (an Architect, aged 32) SAMUEL WACKERBATH (an Auctioneer and Estate Agent, aged 60) RAPKIN (Ventimore's Landlord, a retired butler, aged 55) CHIEF OF CARAVAN HEAD EFREET A WAITER (at the Savoy Hotel) MRS. FUTVOYE (aged 55) SYLVIA FUTVOYE (her Daughter, aged 21) MRS. RAPKIN (Ventimore's Landlady) MRS. WACKERBATH JESSIE (Parlour-maid at the Futvoyes') PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL CARAVAN SLAVES, MUSICIANS, EFREETS, DANCING GIRLS

* * * * *

_ACTS I AND II_

VENTIMORE'S ROOMS IN VINCENT SQUARE, WESTMINSTER

_ACT III_

SCENE I. VENTIMORE'S OFFICE IN GREAT COLLEGE STREET, WESTMINSTER

SCENE II. A DRAWING-ROOM AT THE FUTVOYES' HOUSE IN COTTESMORE GARDENS, KENSINGTON

_ACT IV_

SCENE I. VENTIMORE'S ROOMS

SCENE II. THE "PINAFORE" ROOM AT THE SAVOY HOTEL

THE BRASS BOTTLE

THE FIRST ACT

_The scene represents HORACE
VENTIMORE'S rooms in Vincent
Square, Westminster._

_The sitting-room is simply but
artistically furnished and
decorated. Walls with a
lining-paper of a pleasant green,
hung with coloured prints and
etchings. Fireplace at back. Down
left is a large open French window,
opening on a balcony, with a view
beyond of the open square and some
large dull-red gasometers in the
distance. Above the window is a
small Sheraton bookcase. On the
right of fireplace is a door
leading to the landing and
staircase. Down on the right,
another door to VENTIMORE'S
bedroom. Above this door, a
small Sheraton sideboard. Near the
window on left is an armchair, and
by it a table, with two smaller
chairs. [N.B.--Right and Left
mean the spectator's Right and Left
throughout._]

_The time is late afternoon in
summer._

_When the curtain rises there is no
one in the room. A knock is heard at
the door on right of fireplace.
Then, after a pause, MRS. RAPKIN
enters. She is a pleasant, neatly
dressed, elderly woman, of the
respectable landlady class. She
wears a cooking-apron and her
sleeves are turned up. She looks
round the room, and turns to the
door as PROFESSOR FUTVOYE appears._

MRS. RAPKIN.

Mr. Ventimore don't seem to be in, after all, sir. Unless he's in his bedroom. [_She comes down to the door on right, as PROFESSOR, MRS., and MISS FUTVOYE enter from the other door. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE is elderly and crabbed; his wife, grey-haired and placid, bearing with him as with an elderly and rather troublesome child; SYLVIA FUTVOYE, their daughter, is a pretty and attractive girl of about twenty. MRS. RAPKIN knocks at the bedroom door._] Mr. Ventimore! A gentleman and two ladies to see you. [_She opens the door--then, to the PROFESSOR._] No, sir, he hasn't come in yet--but he won't be long now.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_By the table._] Are you _sure_ of that, ma'am?

MRS. RAPKIN.

Well, sir, he said as how he'd be in early, to make sure as everythink was as it _should_ be. [_In a burst of confidence._] If you _must_ know, he's expecting company to dinner this evening.

[_SYLVIA has moved to the window;
MRS. FUTVOYE stands by the table._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Placing his hat and stick on a small shelf on the left of fireplace, and standing by table._] I'm aware of that, ma'am. We happen to be the company Mr. Ventimore is expecting. Don't let us keep you from your cooking.

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_With another burst of confidence._] Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I '_ave_ a good deal on my 'ands just now.

[_She goes out by door at back._

SYLVIA.

[_After moving about and inspecting the pictures._] I rather like Horace's rooms.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Irritably._] I wish he'd manage to be _in_ 'em! I fully expected he'd be back by this time. _Most_ annoying!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Resignedly._] I _thought_ you were bringing us all this way for nothing! And when you must be quite exhausted enough as it is, after lecturing all the afternoon!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I'm not in the least exhausted, Sophia; not in the least!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Well, Anthony, if _you're_ not, Sylvia and I are! [_She sits in armchair by the window._] But _why_ you couldn't wait till eight o'clock to know how Horace got on at that sale I _can't_ think!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

He ought to have been back _long_ ago! I can see _no_ excuse for his dawdling like this. None whatever!

[_He sits on right of table._

SYLVIA.

[_Standing behind table._] Perhaps he went back to his office?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Tartly._] He's much more likely to have dropped into his club for a rubber of Bridge!

SYLVIA.

Don't you think you're rather ungrateful to grumble at poor Horace like this, after he's given up a whole day's work to oblige you?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I was not aware, my dear, that he has, or ever had, a day's work to give up! Correct me if I am wrong--but I am under the impression that nobody has employed him as an architect _yet_.

SYLVIA.

That isn't Horace's fault!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Possibly--but it doesn't make him more desirable as a future son-in-law.

SYLVIA.

Horace is sure to succeed as soon as he gets a chance. [_Sitting on table and leaning over the PROFESSOR._] If you would only say a word for him to Godfather, he might be able to help him.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Wackerbath? No, my dear, I couldn't bring myself to take such an advantage of our old friendship as _that_! I've no belief in Ventimore's succeeding in life. He _may_ have ability--though I'm bound to say I see little _evidence_ of it--but, depend upon it, he'll never make any money!

SYLVIA.

How _can_ you tell?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Because he can't even take care of the little he has! Look at the money he's throwing away on this totally unnecessary dinner to-night!

SYLVIA.

Oh! When it's just a quiet little dinner in his own rooms! If it had been the _Carlton_, now!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

He proposed to entertain us at the Carlton at first--but I stopped _that_. It all bears out what I say--that he has absolutely _no_ sense of the value of----

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Interposing calmly._] There, Anthony, that's enough! Horace is engaged to Sylvia--and the most sensible thing we can do is to make the best of it.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Rising and moving to the right._] I _am_ making the best of it, Sophia! If Ventimore was like Spencer Pringle, now!----

SYLVIA.

He would never have been engaged to _me_!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_To SYLVIA._] Pringle, my dear, is a steady, hard-working young fellow. I've a real respect and liking for _Pringle_. And if I _must_ have an architect for a son-in-law, he is the man _I_ should have preferred!

SYLVIA.

Why, he hasn't been near us for weeks and weeks--and I hope he means to stay away altogether! I always thought him a conceited prig.

[_Moving towards door at back._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

You may come to think differently, my dear. [_Pulling out his watch._] Nearly half-past six! Tut-tut! All this time wasted! It's useless to wait any longer for Ventimore. We may just as well go!

[_He goes to get his hat and
stick._

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Rising._] I knew how it would _be_!

SYLVIA.

[_At door._] Wait! [_Opens door and listens._] There's Horace coming upstairs! I'm sure it's his step!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Stops by table with relief._] At last! Now I shall know!

[_SPENCER PRINGLE enters. He is a
smug, self-satisfied looking man of
about thirty-five, smooth-shaven,
except for small side-whiskers. He
is in a light tweed suit, having
just come up from the country._

SYLVIA.

[_Repressing her disappointment._] Mr. Pringle!

PRINGLE.

[_In doorway._] Miss Sylvia! Mrs. Futvoye! [_Shaking hands with the PROFESSOR._] Professor! Well! this is unexpected.

[_SYLVIA comes down to right._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Graciously._] Glad to see you, Pringle! You are quite a stranger. Indeed, my daughter was remarking, only a little while ago, that you hadn't been near us for weeks!

SYLVIA.

[_In an indignant undertone._] _Father!_

[_MRS. FUTVOYE sits down again._

PRINGLE.

[_To SYLVIA, flattered._] Delighted to think I've been missed! But my apparent--er--neglect has been quite unavoidable.

SYLVIA.

[_Laughing._] So kind of you to relieve our minds, Mr. Pringle!

PRINGLE.

[_Solemnly._] I assure you it's the fact. I've been away constantly for the last two months, superintending work I'm doing in various parts of the country. [_With importance._] Hardly a moment to call my own!

[_SYLVIA turns with the intention
of sitting down; he places a chair
for her._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Taking chair behind table._] A busy man like _you_, my dear Pringle, has no need to make excuses.

PRINGLE.

[_Fetching a chair for himself._] I really have been fearfully overworked. Not that I complain of _that_! [_As he sits down between the PROFESSOR and SYLVIA._] I'd no idea we should meet _here_, though. Is Ventimore a friend of yours?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Oh, we know him, yes. As _you_ do, it seems.

PRINGLE.

I sublet a room in my offices to him. Rather a good arrangement for him, because he gets experience by looking after any little matters that I've no time to attend to.

SYLVIA.

[_With suppressed resentment._] And isn't that rather a good arrangement for _you_?

PRINGLE.

It works fairly well--as a rule. But when I returned from the country this afternoon I found he hadn't been near the office all day!

[_He rises, takes SYLVIA'S
parasol officiously, and places it
in a corner, then returns._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_To his wife, but speaking at SYLVIA._] Not been near the office all day! I _thought_ as much!

SYLVIA.

The reason _why_ he wasn't able to help you, Mr. Pringle, is because he's been at an auction, bidding for things on father's account.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I should have attended the sale myself but for an engagement to lecture at the Hieroglyphical on a recently inscribed cylinder.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

And--you'll hardly believe it, Mr. Pringle,--but, the moment the lecture was over, he hurried us off here to find out what Mr. Ventimore had got for him! It's really too ridiculous! As if his study wasn't littered up quite enough already!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Women, my dear Pringle, can't understand the feelings of a collector. It's not _every_ day, I can tell you, that a collection of such importance comes into the market.

PRINGLE.

I didn't know Ventimore was an expert in such things. I thought you could get brokers to bid for you.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Of course--of course. But I don't trust brokers--they know too much! And, as I gave Ventimore my own catalogue, with a tick against the lots I want and the limit I'm prepared to go, noted on the margin, he _can't_ make any mistake.

PRINGLE.

I suppose not. That is, if he's _accustomed_ to auctions.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

What do you mean?

PRINGLE.

Only that if you _aren't_, there's always a liability to lose your head in the excitement, and go beyond the margin. But I daresay Ventimore wouldn't do _that_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

If he _has_! [_He rises excitedly._] And he might--he _might_! With his recklessness about money, it's the very thing he _would_ do! Letting me in for prices I can't afford! [_Passionately._] No wonder he is in no hurry to show himself--no wonder!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Rising and attempting to pacify him._] Now, Anthony, there's nothing to work yourself up into a state for, at present. Do for goodness' sake wait till you hear all about it!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Resentfully._] It seems I shall _have_ to wait, Sophia--but I'm tired of waiting _here_. [_He goes to get his hat and stick._] And evidently he doesn't intend to----

[_Turns, as the door opens and
HORACE VENTIMORE comes in briskly.
HORACE is a pleasant-looking young
man, with a cheery and rather boyish
manner; he comes down and greets the
FUTVOYES without seeing PRINGLE for
the moment; SYLVIA has risen,
delighted at his arrival._

HORACE.

I _say_! This is jolly! [_Shaking hands._] Wish I'd known you were coming on here after the lecture. [_PRINGLE rises, and waits stiffly for recognition._] Warm work, wasn't it, Professor, lecturing on an afternoon like this? Do sit down. [_Looks at table._] Haven't they given you any tea?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Irritably._] No, no, no. We want no tea. It's too late for tea. We merely looked in on our way home to----

HORACE.

[_Sees PRINGLE._] And Pringle, too! [_Pats him on shoulder._] How are you, old fellow? You been at the lecture, too?

PRINGLE.

[_With implied rebuke._] No, I've only just come round--as you weren't at the office,--to----

HORACE.

I've been engaged all day. Oh, by the bye, do you know Professor and Mrs.----

[_Is about to introduce him._

PRINGLE.

[_Stiffly._] I am happy to say, my dear fellow, that I require no introduction. We are old friends.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Impatiently._] To come to the point, Ventimore, as we are rather pressed for time--about the sale? How did you get on, eh?

HORACE.

Oh, ah--the sale. [_Producing catalogue from pocket._] Well, I did exactly as you told me.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Snatching catalogue from him._] Yes, yes. Let's go through it lot by lot. Lot 23, now. Did you get that?

HORACE.

No. Another fellow got _that_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Annoyed._] Tssch! Well,--so long as you secured Lot 35. [_Reading from catalogue._] "Copper bowl, engraved round rim with verse from Hafiz," you know. Come, you didn't miss _that_?

[_SYLVIA is listening anxiously._

HORACE.

I did, though. It was snapped up by a sportsman in the very worst hat I ever saw in my life. He got it for sixteen guineas.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Disgusted._] What? A rare example of early Persian work like that going for only sixteen guineas! I'd willingly have paid double the money!

HORACE.

But your limit was seven pound ten, sir! And you warned me not to exceed it.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

You should have used your own judgment, sir! Well, well,--which of the lots I marked _did_ you get?

HORACE.

[_Going to SYLVIA, who is sympathetically distressed._] Couldn't get one of 'em. They all fetched record prices.

_Professor Futvoye._

[_Violently._] Upon my soul!... Pringle, you were right! I ought to have employed a broker! [_To HORACE._] So you've come back with absolutely _nothing_?

HORACE.

Well, no. I did manage to get _one_ thing.

SYLVIA.

I _knew_ you would!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_To HORACE._] You did? But I understood you to say just now----!

HORACE.

This was a little flutter on my own account. I thought I'd stick the sale out, do you see; and near the end there was an extra lot put up--it wasn't in the catalogue. [_The PROFESSOR makes an exclamation of angry disgust._] Well, it was being passed round for us to look at--and nobody seemed to think much of it. But it struck me, somehow, it might be a dark horse, so I made a bid--and got it for only a sovereign!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Pah!

SYLVIA.

But you haven't told us yet what it _is_.

HORACE.

Haven't I? Oh, well, it's a sort of metal jar. Brass, the auctioneer said it was.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Tchah! Some modern bazaar trash!

HORACE.

It doesn't _look_ modern. I left it downstairs to be cleaned. [_Going to door right of fireplace._] I'll go and bring it up.

[_He goes out._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Furious._] I've no patience with the fellow! Squandering his sovereigns like this on worthless rubbish!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Don't be so fractious, Anthony! For all you can tell, he may have picked up a treasure.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Grimly._] He _may_, Sophia. On the other hand, he may _not_. Which, on the whole, is rather more probable.

[_He retires up to the fireplace
as HORACE returns, carrying a
large metal bottle with a long neck
and bulbous body, encrusted with a
thick greenish-white deposit.
PRINGLE closes the door for him
after he has entered._

HORACE.

[_Bringing the bottle down to right of table._] Here it is! [_The others--except the PROFESSOR, who remains aloof--gather round and examine it in dubious silence._] It's not much to _look_ at.

PRINGLE.

Very dusty! [_Wipes his hand after touching the bottle._] And you gave a _sovereign_ for this, Ventimore, eh? H'm! Dear me!

SYLVIA.

It may look better when it's had a good scrubbing.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Scrubbing, my dear! It will have to be _scraped_ first!

HORACE.

Yes--looks as if it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea, doesn't it? I've an idea it may be worth something. I should like to have _your_ opinion, Professor.

[_He smiles uneasily._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_After a glance at it._] My opinion is that you might just as well have flung your sovereign into the gutter!

HORACE.

I admit it was speculative--but it _may_ turn out a winner. It's rather odd it should be so tightly sealed up.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_With more interest._] Sealed up, is it? [_Coming down and looking at it more carefully._] H'm--the _form_ is certainly antique. It's wonderful what they can do in Birmingham!

HORACE.

I really think it may have something inside it. It's not so very heavy, and yet--[_tapping it_]--it doesn't sound quite as if it were empty.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

It _might_ contain something. I think it most unlikely--but still, it _might_.

SYLVIA.

[_Laughing._] You don't mean it might be like that jar the Fisherman found in "The Arabian Nights," with a Genius inside it?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I did _not_ mean anything so frivolous, my dear. And, if you _must_ quote "The Arabian Nights," it's as well to remember in future that the more correct term is not "Genius," but "Jinnee." Singular, Jinnee--plural, Jinn.

SYLVIA.

I'll remember, dear. Singular, Jinn--plural, Jinnies.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Instructively._] A name applied by Arab mythology to a race of aerial beings, created of the flame of fire, but capable of assuming human form and exercising supernatural powers.

SYLVIA.

Oh, do let's open it now and see what _is_ inside!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Don't be childish, Sylvia, don't be childish! We've no time now for idle curiosity. If we're to dress and be back here by eight o'clock, we ought to start at once. [_MRS. FUTVOYE prepares to go and moves towards door._] Good-bye, then, Ventimore, for the present. [_He gets his hat and stick._] It is not to be an _elaborate_ entertainment, I trust? A simple ordinary little dinner is all _I_ require.

HORACE.

[_As he opens the door for MRS. FUTVOYE._] I've tried to remember your tastes, Professor.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I hope you have succeeded. Good-bye, Pringle. Very glad to have run across you again. Let us see more of you in future.

PRINGLE.

[_Going to the door with him._] You shall, Professor, you shall. [_Following PROFESSOR and MRS. FUTVOYE out to landing._] By the way, are you likely to be in next----?

[_HORACE closes door, leaving
SYLVIA still looking at the
bottle._

SYLVIA.

[_Turning as he comes down to her._] I'm certain there must be _something_ inside that jar. And if it's anything really interesting, father will be so frightfully pleased that he won't be disagreeable all the evening!

HORACE.

[_Ruefully._] Ah, I'm afraid that's too much to look forward to.

SYLVIA.

[_Touching his arm with a little gesture of sympathy._] You poor dear! You're not beginning to be nervous about your dinner, are you?

HORACE.

N--no. Not _nervous_ exactly. Something _might_ go wrong. Still, I hope there won't be _much_ your father can find fault with.

SYLVIA.

I'm sure there won't! And if he does, why, _we_ won't mind, will we? We shall be together, you know!

HORACE.

[_Putting his arm round her._] That's what I've been thinking of all day!

[_He kisses her as PRINGLE
returns, unseen by them. His jaw
drops as he sees them together._

PRINGLE.

[_Coming forward._] Er----[_HORACE and SYLVIA separate._] Miss Sylvia--the Professor asked me to tell you----

SYLVIA.

I was just coming. [_Taking her parasol and moving to door, which PRINGLE has left open._] Good-bye, Mr. Pringle. [_Stopping HORACE and PRINGLE as they are about to see her down the stairs._] No, you mustn't come down, either of you. [_To HORACE, with an affectation of distance._] Good-bye--Mr. Ventimore.

[_She goes out._

PRINGLE.

[_By the table._] I should like to ask you, Ventimore, have you known Miss Futvoye _long_?

HORACE.

[_Still at door, looking after SYLVIA._] A little over six weeks.

PRINGLE.

And I have known her for as many years!

HORACE.

[_Closing door, and coming towards him._] Have you, though? I noticed the Professor was uncommonly cordial to you. Look here, are you doing anything this evening?

PRINGLE.

Er--no. That is, nothing particular. Why?

HORACE.

Because it would be friendly of you if you'd come and dine here. _They're_ coming, you know.

PRINGLE.

I know. [_After a moment's hesitation._] Thanks, I don't mind if I do.

HORACE.

Capital! I'm sure if any one can keep the old man in a good humour, _you_ can.

PRINGLE.

[_Sourly._] I see. You want me to engage him in conversation and leave you free to carry on your flirtation with Miss Futvoye unobserved?

HORACE.

Not quite that. There's nothing _underhand_ about it. We're engaged, you know.

PRINGLE.

Engaged! [_After a pause._] And how long have you been that?

HORACE.

Only since the day before yesterday.

PRINGLE.

[_Blankly._] Oh! [_He walks down to window._] I congratulate you; er--heartily, of course. [_Looking out of window._] And--and when do you think of being married?

HORACE.

It's no use thinking of that, at present. Not till the Professor takes a rosier view of my prospects, at all events. But if, like a good fellow, you could put in a word for me, it would give me no end of a leg up!

PRINGLE.

[_Dully, with his face still averted._] You don't seem to realise what you're asking!

HORACE.

[_Suddenly understanding, with compunction._] My _dear_ chap! [_He puts both his hands on PRINGLE'S shoulders._] What a selfish brute I've been not to see! I _am_ sorry!

PRINGLE.

[_Stiffly._] As a matter of fact, I'd quite made up my mind to propose to her--as soon as I'd got those country jobs off my mind. And now I find _you_'ve cut in before me!

HORACE.

Well, it's straight of you to tell me. I suppose you'd rather come and dine some _other_ evening? If so----

PRINGLE.

No. A promise is a promise. I'll come. Mind you, I don't pretend it won't be an effort--but I'll see what I can do for you.

HORACE.

[_Gratefully._] You _are_ a good chap, Pringle!--one of the best! Though, really, after what you've told me, I hardly like----

PRINGLE.

Not another word. Anything I _can_ say on your behalf--without _too_ wide a departure from strict accuracy--I'll say with pleasure. [_Going up to door._] Eight o'clock's the hour, isn't it? All right. [_He goes out._]

[_HORACE makes a movement towards
the fireplace, as if to ring the
bell. Then his eye is caught by the
brass bottle, which is standing in
the centre of the room. He stops,
looks at his watch, and decides that
he has time to open the bottle. He
examines the cap on its neck, then
goes to sideboard and takes from it
a heavy paper-weight and a
champagne-opener, returns to chair
on right of table and sits, holding
the bottle between his knees. Using
the champagne-opener as a chisel,
and the paper-weight as hammer, he
proceeds to chip away the deposit
round the cap, whistling an air from
a musical comedy as he works._

HORACE.

[_To himself._] I've _loosened_ it. [_He seizes the cap and tries to screw it off._] It's _giving_!

[_Suddenly the room is in complete
darkness; there is a loud report
and a spurt of flame from the
bottle. HORACE has fallen back on
the floor, with the cap of the
bottle in his hand. There is just
light enough to see a tall weird
figure standing with out-stretched
arms behind the bottle._

HORACE.

[_Sitting up and rubbing the back of his head; faintly._] Hullo! Is any one there? Who's that come in?

THE STRANGER.

[_In an attitude of supplication._] Towbah! Yah nebbi Ullah! Anna lah amill Kathahlik ibadan! Wullah-hi!

HORACE.

I daresay you're perfectly right, sir--but I've no idea what you're talking about.

THE STRANGER.

[_Repeating the Arabic sentence._] Towbah! (&c. &c.) Wullah-hi!

HORACE.

[_About to raise himself, sees the figure for the first time, and falls back astonished; then, recovering himself._] I suppose you've just taken the rooms on the ground-floor--so you _must_ be able to make yourself understood in English?

THE STRANGER.

[_The room has grown lighter, and he is seen to be in dull-green robes and a high-peaked turban. His long grey beard is divided into three thin strands; his eyes are slightly slanted, and his expression is a curious mixture of fatuous benignity, simplicity, and cunning._] Assuredly I can speak so as to be understood of all men.

HORACE.

Then it's as well to _do_ it. What was it you said just now?

THE STRANGER.

I said: "Repentance, O Prophet of Allah! I will not return to the like conduct ever!"

HORACE.

Oh, I beg your pardon. [_Sitting up again._] Thought you were speaking to _me_. But I say--[_looking up at him_]--how do you come to be here?

THE STRANGER.

Surely by thine own action!

HORACE.

I see. You ran up to see what was the matter. Fact is, my head's still rather buzzy. I fancy I must have hit it somehow when I was trying to open that jar.

THE STRANGER.

Then it _was_ thy hand and none other that removed the stopper?

HORACE.

I--I suppose so. All _I_ know is that _something_ went off with a bang. I can't imagine what could have been _inside_ the beastly thing!

THE STRANGER.

Who else but I myself?

HORACE.

[_Slowly rising to his feet._] You must have your little joke, eh? [_He reels against the table._] Or did I misunderstand you? My head's in such a muddle!

THE STRANGER.

I tell thee that I have been confined within that accursed vessel for centuries beyond all calculation.

HORACE.

You can't pull my leg like that, you know! Seriously, just tell me who you _are_.

THE STRANGER.

Know then that he who now addresseth thee is none other than Fakrash-el-Aamash, a Jinnee of the Green Jinn.

HORACE.

[_Half to himself._] Singular, "Jinnee"--plural, "Jinn." Where did I hear that? I--I shall remember presently.

FAKRASH.

I dwelt in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds in the Garden of Irem, above the City of Babel.

HORACE.

[_To himself._] Why, of _course_! Sylvia! The Arabian Nights! [_To FAKRASH._] I can quite account for you _now_--but go on.

FAKRASH.

For a certain offence that I committed, the wrath of Suleyman, the son of Daood--on whom be peace!--[_he salaams_]--was heavy against me, and he commanded that I should be enclosed within a bottle of brass, and thrown into the Sea of El-Karkar, there to abide the Day of Doom.

HORACE.

Don't think I'm _believing_ in you. [_Walking round the front of the bottle, as if to test FAKRASH by touching him._] I've sense enough to know you're not _real_!

[_He withdraws his hand without
venturing upon the experiment._

FAKRASH.

Stroke thy head and recover thy faculties! I am real, even as thou art.

[_He touches HORACE'S shoulder;
HORACE recoils._

HORACE.

I shall come round in time! [_By the table, to FAKRASH._] You tell me you've just come out of this bottle?

FAKRASH.

Dost thou doubt that it is even as I have said?

HORACE.

Well, I should have thought myself you'd take a bigger size in bottles. But of course, I couldn't doubt you if I saw you get _into_ it again.

FAKRASH.

That would be the easiest of actions! [_He makes a sudden swooping movement, as though to re-enter the bottle, and then thinks better of it._] But I should indeed be a silly-bearded one to do this thing, since thou mightst be tempted to seal me up once more!

HORACE.

[_Disappointed, and backing against table, half afraid._] Too knowing an old bird to be caught like that, aren't you? But _I_ don't mind! You'll disappear presently.

FAKRASH.

True, O young man of perfect qualities and good works! But I will not leave thee before I have rewarded thy kindness. For in the sky it is written upon the pages of the air: "He who doeth kind actions shall experience the like!" Therefore--[_with a lordly gesture_]--demand of me what thou wilt, and thou shalt receive!

HORACE.

Oh, I shall be awake so soon it's not worth while troubling you.

FAKRASH.

Dismiss bashfulness from thee. [_Advancing towards him._] For by thy hand hath my deliverance been accomplished, and if I were to serve thee for a thousand years, regarding nothing else, even thus could I not requite thee!

HORACE.

[_Retreating in some alarm to window._] Look here. I don't want _anything_, and--and the best thing _you_ can do is to vanish.

FAKRASH.

[_At back of table._] Not till thou hast told me thy name and the trade that thou followest.

HORACE.

Oh, you'll go _then_? [_FAKRASH assents._] Well, I'll humour you. My name is Horace Ventimore, and I'm an architect. I get my living by building houses, you know. Or rather, I _should_, if I could only get hold of a client--which I can't.

FAKRASH.

[_Coming down nearer bottle._] Grant thy servant a period of delay, and it may be that I can procure thee a client.

HORACE.

Good old Arabian Nights again! You'd better not make the delay long--my head will be clear very soon.

FAKRASH.

Greater rewards by far will I bestow upon thee, most meritorious of men! But now--[_going up to right_]--I must leave thee for a season.

HORACE.

I _knew_ I was coming round--you'll be gone directly.

FAKRASH.

Aye, for I must seek out Suleyman--[_salaaming_]--on whom be peace!--and obtain pardon from him.

[_He waves his arm, and the door at
back flies open._

HORACE.

[_Eagerly._] Yes--I _would_! You go and do _that_! Make haste! [_The door closes, leaving FAKRASH visible through it in an unearthly light._] Good-bye--and good luck!

FAKRASH.

[_Through door._] To thee also! And be assured that I will not be unmindful of thy welfare!

[_The door becomes solid as
FAKRASH vanishes._

HORACE.

[_Rubbing his eyes._] What a queer dream! [_He goes up to the door, opens it, then returns and sits by table._] So vivid! [_He sees the brass bottle on the floor._] Open! [_Looking inside it._] Empty! H'm, better get it out of the way.

[_He takes the bottle in one hand
and the cap in the other, and
carries them into the bedroom on
right. The moment he has gone there
is a rush of wind, and then a heavy
thud on the balcony outside, and MR.
WACKERBATH, a stout, prosperous-looking,
elderly gentleman, in tall hat, frock-coat,
white waistcoat, &c., reels through
the open window into the room, and
sinks into the armchair on left of
tablet where he sits puffing and
blowing._

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Feebly._] Where _am_ I? How did I----? [_He takes off his hat._] Ah, of course! I remember now. [_He rises as HORACE enters from bedroom._] Mr.--ah--Ventimore, I think? Mr. Horace Ventimore?

HORACE.

[_Slightly surprised._] Yes, that's my name. [_Offering chair on right of table._] Won't you sit down?

MR. WACKERBATH.

Thank you--I will. [_He sits down._] I--I ought to apologise for dropping in on you in this--ah--unceremonious way--but I acted, I may say--ah--on a sudden impulse.

HORACE.

I'm afraid I haven't much time to spare--but if it's anything of importance----

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Panting._] You must give me a little time--till I--ah--get my wind again.

HORACE.

Certainly. I know the stairs here _are_ rather steep.

MR. WACKERBATH.

Are they? I don't remember noticing them. However! My name, Mr. Ventimore, is Wackerbath--Samuel Wackerbath, of Wackerbath and Greatrex, a firm of auctioneers and estate agents whose name may--ah--possibly be not unfamiliar to you.

HORACE.

[_Who has obviously never heard it before._] Oh, of course--of course.

MR. WACKERBATH.

I may tell you that for the last few years I have rented an old place--Moatham Abbey they call it--in Surrey, which is not quite as up-to-date as I could wish in the matter of modern conveniences.

HORACE.

That's not unusual with ancient abbeys, is it?

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Solemnly._] Precisely. Well, to come to the point, I've lately acquired some land in the neighbourhood of Surrey and Hampshire, with a view to building a country residence. [_HORACE becomes more interested, and seats himself at table on MR. WACKERBATH'S right._] You see, there's an excellent site--on a hill with a south aspect, just above the village of Lipsfield, and overlooking the valley and river----

HORACE.

[_Making a note._] Well, Mr. Wackerbath----?

MR. WACKERBATH.

Well, as I was saying only a minute or two ago to a friend as we were crossing Westminster Bridge on our way to Waterloo----[_He pauses, with an endeavour to recollect._] Where _was_ I?

HORACE.

Waterloo.

MR. WACKERBATH.

Ah, yes. I remarked to him: "All I require is a thoroughly capable architect." [_HORACE grows alert and excited._] And instantly _your_ name flashed across my mind. So I--ah--hurried off at once, and--here I _am_!

HORACE.

[_With a sudden misgiving._] May I ask--you--you weren't _recommended_ to me by--by--[_he looks round at the door through which FAKRASH has vanished_]--any one?

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_With dignity._] Certainly not! It was--ah--entirely my own idea. But why do you ask? [_Huffily._] Is an introduction necessary?

HORACE.

[_Relieved._] No, no--not in the least! I--I merely asked. I shall be very pleased to undertake the commission. Could you give me some idea of the amount you thought of spending on the house?

MR. WACKERBATH.

Well, I don't think I could go to more than--say, _sixty_ thousand pounds.

HORACE.

[_Half rising in his surprise._] Sixty thousand! [_He recollects himself and sits down in assumed calm._] Oh, not more than _that_? I _see_.

MR. WACKERBATH.

For the house itself. But there'll be the out-buildings--and the decorations. Altogether, I sha'n't complain so long as the total doesn't exceed a hundred thousand. I take it that, for that sum, Mr. Ventimore, you could give me a country-house that I shall have no cause--ah--to feel ashamed of.

HORACE.

I can safely promise _that_. And now--when could I run down and have a look at the site, and go into the matter thoroughly?

MR. WACKERBATH.

We must fix a day later. I'm rather in a hurry now; and besides, I must consult the wife. Perhaps you could give me an appointment here?

HORACE.

These are only my private rooms. I shall be at my office in Great College Street to-morrow, if you could look in then. [_Giving him card._] Here's the address.

MR. WACKERBATH.

Good! [_He rises and moves towards window, while HORACE rings bell by fireplace._] I'll look in on my way from Waterloo to the City. [_He perceives that he is walking out on to a balcony, and turns._] How the devil did I come in? I'll be with you at eleven sharp.

[_He goes towards the bedroom door
on the right._

HORACE.

[_At door to landing._] _This_ way, Mr. Wackerbath.

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Vaguely._] I thought I came _that_ way. [_As he goes up._] I can see already that you're the very man for me. [_At door to landing._] Now I must be off, or I shall miss my train to Lipsfield. [_As HORACE offers to see him downstairs._] Don't trouble--I can find my way down. Eleven sharp to-morrow. _Good_ evening.

[_As he passes out HORACE touches
his back, as though half suspecting
him to be another illusion. MR.
WACKERBATH turns and shakes hands
effusively, then goes out, and
HORACE closes door._

HORACE.

[_To himself._] _He's_ no dream, anyhow! [_With exultation._] A client! A real client of my own! At last!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Enters from landing._] Did you ring for me, sir?--or was it only to let the gentleman out?

[_She comes down._

HORACE.

Oh, there _is_ something I had to tell you. We shall be _five_ at dinner, not four. You can manage all right, eh?

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Comfortably._] Lor, yes, sir. _That_ won't make no difference!

HORACE.

[_In front of table._] By the way, Mrs. Rapkin, you haven't let your ground-floor yet, have you? To--to an Asiatic gentleman?

MRS. RAPKIN.

_Me_, sir? Let to a Asiatic! No,--nor wouldn't! Why, there was Rapkin's own sister-in-law let her droring-room floor to one. And--[_darkly_]--reason she 'ad to repent of it--for all his gold spectacles.

HORACE.

[_Relieved._] Ah, I _thought_ you hadn't. [_Sits on table._] Well, about the waiting to-night? I suppose I can depend on Rapkin for that, eh? Where _is_ he?

MRS. RAPKIN.

Well, sir, not to deceive you, he ain't back yet from his Public--Libery as _he_ calls it.

HORACE.

Oh, _that's_ what he calls it, eh?

MRS. RAPKIN.

Whatever he's took, sir, you may rely on him to 'and the dishes without 'aving no accidents.

[_A noise is heard from the street
below, which gradually resolves
itself into an Oriental chant._

HORACE.

What's going on outside? [_He goes to window, looks out, and then starts back uneasily._] I say. It's--it's devilish odd--but there seems to me to be a whole caravan of camels down there!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Crossing to window._] Camuels, sir?

HORACE.

Well, you look and see what _you_ make of them!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Looking down over balcony._] Lor! They _do_ look like camuels, sir--or _somethink_ o' that. I expect they belong to the 'Ippodrome, or else a circus.

HORACE.

[_Relieved._] I say, what a sensible woman you are! Of course! I never thought of _that_!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Still looking out, while the chant finishes with a few shouts, as though a halt were called._] They seem to be stopping outside the 'ouse. Them camuels have folded up, and all the niggers as is with them is a kneelin' down with their noses on the kerbstone!

HORACE.

[_Uncomfortably._] They're only _resting_. Come away and don't take any notice. They'll move on presently.

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Still at window._] But they're _unpackin'_ the camuels now! And--well, if they ain't bringing everythink in _'ere_!

[_She retreats to behind the
table._

HORACE.

Great Scott!

[_He comes down to left of stage._

MRS. RAPKIN.

They wouldn't be _more_ things as you've been buying at that auction, sir, would they?

[_The chant is heard now inside the
house._

HORACE.

No, no. It's a mistake! It _must_ be a mistake!

MRS. RAPKIN.

Then I'd better go and tell them----

[_She moves towards door to
landing, but before she reaches it,
it flies open mysteriously. A
moment afterwards a tall, fierce
Oriental in turban and robes
appears in doorway and salaams.
MRS. RAPKIN recoils with a cry.
Then a train of black slaves
enter, carrying large sacks, bales,
and chests, which they deposit on
the table and floor, till the room
is completely blocked; their chief
stands down on right, with his back
to the audience, and directs them
by gestures._

HORACE.

Look here! I say,--you fellows! You've come to the wrong house!

[_The slaves pay no attention to
him._

MRS. RAPKIN.

'Ere! my good _men_, what are you comin' in '_ere_ for, bringing all your dust into my apartments?

HORACE.

[_Standing paralysed; to himself._] We can't _both_ be dreaming!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Trying to remonstrate with slaves._] This rubbish don't belong _'ere_! I can't 'ave the 'ole place littered up with it! You needn't act so ridic'lous if you _are_ niggers! [_To HORACE._] It ain't no use _my_ talking to 'em, sir. They're not like _Christians_--they're deaf and dumb, seemingly! _You_ try!

HORACE.

[_Going to the HEAD SLAVE, who salaams as he approaches._] Can you understand if I ask a question? [_The HEAD SLAVE salaams again._] Well, I--I know it seems a silly thing to ask--but--but you don't happen to be sent here by--by anybody with a name something like Fakrash? [_The HEAD SLAVE implies by a gesture that this is so._] You _have_!... Well, look here. _I_ don't want 'em. I decline to take 'em in. You have all these things put on the camels again, and clear out! Do you see what I mean? [_By this time the other slaves have gone; the HEAD SLAVE signifies in pantomime that the things are HORACE'S, salaams, and goes out, the door closing behind him mysteriously._] I don't believe that idiot understands _now_! They've gone off to fetch _more_!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Who has returned to window._] They've gone off altogether, sir. I can't see nothink now but a cloud of dust.

HORACE.

[_Sinks into chair on right of table with his head buried in his hands._] The fools! The confounded fools!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Comes to table and looks for HORACE in vain._] Sir! Sir! [_Sees him over the bales, &c._] Sir! Where _are_ you going to 'ave your dinner-party _now_?

HORACE.

[_Forlornly._] Oh, I don't know--I don't know! Don't worry me now, Mrs. Rapkin! Go away! Can't you see I want to think--I want to _think_!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_As she goes towards door at back._] Well, I _must_ say and I _do_ say that if this _'ad_ to 'appen, it couldn't have come more ill-convenient! [_She goes out._

[_As soon as she has gone HORACE
rises and comes to an
antique-looking trunk on left; he
opens it, and brings out an
enormous emerald and ruby, each the
size of a cocoa-nut; he looks at
them for a moment in dismay, and
drops them back with a groan. Then
he crosses to a sack on the right,
opens it, and brings out an immense
diamond. While he is doing all
this, FAKRASH has risen from
among the bales behind the table,
and watches him with benign
complacency._

HORACE.

[_As he returns the diamond to the sack._] Oh! damn it all!

FAKRASH.

My son!

HORACE.

[_Recoiling on sacks._] I'm not dreaming _now_! I'm awake! And yet--all that story of yours about your being shut up in a brass bottle? I _did_ dream _that_--eh?

FAKRASH.

Nay, it is even as I told thee.

HORACE.

And it _was_ you who sent me all these things?

FAKRASH.

A few trifling gifts by no means suited to thy dignity! Thou owest me no thanks.

HORACE.

I--I'd rather not owe you _anything_. I mean--I can't possibly accept any presents from you.

FAKRASH.

Nay, they are freely thine.

HORACE.

I don't want to be ungracious, but I must decline to be under any obligation whatever to a--well, to a perfect stranger like yourself.

FAKRASH.

Hast thou not placed me under the heaviest of obligations by delivering me from a bottle of brass? To escape out of a bottle is pleasant!

HORACE.

So I should imagine. But, you see, I'd no notion what I was _doing_ or--well, it's done _now_, and if you really wish to show your gratitude for a very trifling service, I'll tell you how you can do it. [_In a tone of earnest entreaty._] Take back all these gifts of yours, and let me alone!

FAKRASH.

[_Beaming._] Truly I am amazed by thy modesty and magnanimity!

HORACE.

I'm _not_ magnanimous--I'm devilish annoyed! [_Exasperated._] Hang it all! _Can't_ you understand that all these things are no earthly use to _me_? You might just as well have sent me so many white elephants!

FAKRASH.

As thou pleasest! To send thee elephants--yea, even in abundance--will be no difficult undertaking.

[_He makes a movement as though
about to summon them._

HORACE.

[_Aghast._] Good Lord! Don't you go wasting white elephants on _me_! You take everything so literally! All _I_ meant was that if these things _were_ white elephants, instead of what they are, I couldn't be more embarrassed! _Now_ do you see?

FAKRASH.

[_Coming down to right._] Thou seemest to me to be despising riches beyond all price.

HORACE.

Exactly! Because they _are_ beyond all price! _Look_ at those sacks--bulging, simply _bulging_ with diamonds and rubies and emeralds as big as ostrich eggs! Well, I can't _wear_ 'em. They'd be too dressy! I can't _sell_ 'em--no one could afford to buy a single one of 'em! And how am I to account for having them at all?

FAKRASH.

Thou canst surely say that they are presents to thee from Fakrash-el-Aamash, a Jinnee of the Green Jinn, in return for thy kindness in releasing him from a bottle of brass.

HORACE.

Oh, _can_ I? I fancy I see myself giving that explanation! [_More mildly._] No, Fakrash,--you meant well--but the kindest thing _you_ can do is to remove all this at once----

FAKRASH.

This is a thing that cannot be. For to bestow gifts and receive them back disgraceth the giver.

HORACE.

Not when the gifts are only in the way. [_He nearly trips over a sack._] Just _look_ at this room!

FAKRASH.

Verily it is but a miserable apartment for a person of thy distinction!

HORACE.

It's quite good enough for me when it isn't lumbered up like this. I'm expecting friends to dinner this evening, and how the deuce am I to entertain them comfortably unless you make it possible for me?

FAKRASH.

[_Benevolently._] Have no uneasiness. I will see that thou art enabled to entertain thy guests as is fitting.

HORACE.

Good! [_At window._] Then you'll send for that caravan of yours?

FAKRASH.

I hear and obey.

[_He goes towards door at back and
waves his hand. The door flies
open. The chant is heard as before.
A pause, after which the HEAD
SLAVE enters and salaams. Then
the train of black slaves pour in
noiselessly, and proceed to carry
out the chests, &c., and throw the
bales out over the balcony._

HORACE.

[_Encouraging them._] That's right! _All_ those are to go. Put your back into it! [_To some slaves who are throwing down bales from the balcony._] Do be careful! You nearly bowled a camel over _that_ time! [_The last slave has gone out with a sack from which an immense blue jewel has rolled; HORACE picks it up and calls after him._] Hi! You've dropped a little sapphire thing! [_The HEAD SLAVE takes the sapphire from him and salaams._] Sure you've got the lot? All right! Good day! [_The HEAD SLAVE makes a final salaam and goes out, the door closing after him mysteriously; HORACE approaches FAKRASH._] It's awfully nice of you not to be _offended_, old fellow, and I'm just as much obliged as if I'd _kept_ the things, you know.

FAKRASH.

It is no matter. Thou shalt receive other rewards more to thy liking.

HORACE.

[_Alarmed._] No, no! I assure you I don't want _anything_. I can get along quite well by myself. Because--of course, _you_ wouldn't know it, but--[_with pride_]--I've got a client now!

FAKRASH.

[_Calmly._] I know it. Was he not my first gift unto thee?

HORACE.

[_Staggered._] Your first----? No, no--don't you go taking credit for _that_! He assured me himself that he came of his own accord!

FAKRASH.

He knew no better. Nevertheless it was I that procured him for thee.

HORACE.

How?

FAKRASH.

[_Airily._] In the easiest manner possible. Having remarked him upon a bridge, I transported him instantly to thy dwelling, impressing him without his knowledge with thy names and thy marvellous abilities.

HORACE.

[_Horrified--to himself._] Good Lord! He _said_ he came in by the window! [_To FAKRASH._] So you did _that_, did you? Then you took a confounded liberty! You'd no business to introduce clients to me in that irregular way! Don't you ever do this sort of thing again! Just attend to your own affairs in future. I _understood_ you were going off in search of Suleyman. It's high time you _started_. You won't find him in _this_ country, you know.

FAKRASH.

He is on some journey--for in Jerusalem itself could I find no sign of him.

HORACE.

Oh, come! You can't have flown as far as Jerusalem and back _already_!

FAKRASH.

Know'st thou not that, to a Jinnee of the Jinn, distance is but a trifling matter?

HORACE.

So much the better! You'll be back in the East all the sooner. And when you _are_ there, you _stay_ there. Don't get disheartened if you don't find Suleyman directly. Keep on pegging away till you _do_! Why, the mere travelling will be a pleasant change for you!

FAKRASH.

[_On right of table; sententiously._] Well and wisely was it written: "In travel there are five advantages. [_Proceeding to enumerate them on his fingers._] The first of these is----"

HORACE.

[_Impatiently, as he moves to his bedroom door on right._] I know, I know! Don't you bother to run through them _now_--I've got to dress for dinner. Just you bundle off to Arabia and search for Suleyman like billy-oh. Good-bye!

FAKRASH.

May Allah never deprive thy friends of thy presence! Never have I encountered a mortal who has pleased me so greatly!

HORACE.

[_At bedroom door._] Awfully good of you to say so!

FAKRASH.

Farewell! Prepare to receive a reward beyond all thine expectations!

[_He waves his arm, and for ten
seconds the room is in utter
darkness. There are sounds as of a
rushing wind and crashes and
rumblings. Then the glimmer of
three Arabian hanging lanterns is
seen faintly illuminating a large
central arch and two smaller side
ones. An immense perforated lantern
hanging from the domed roof then
becomes lit, and reveals an
octagonal hall with four curtained
arches, the fourth, down on the
right, being where HORACE'S
bedroom door had been. The walls
are decorated in crimson, blue, and
gold arabesques. Above the bedroom
door is a low divan with richly
embroidered cushions. Opposite to
it, on the left, is a similar
divan. High in the wall overhead is
a window with gilded lattice-work,
through which is seen a soft blue
evening sky._

HORACE.

[_With his back to the audience._] Great Scott! What's that old idiot let me in for _now_?

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Heard outside the arch up on right of central arch._] Oh, whatever is it _now_? What's 'appened? [_She enters._] Goodness gracious! Mr. Ventimore, sir--what's _come_ to the 'ouse?

HORACE.

Then--_you_ see a difference, Mrs. Rapkin?

MRS. RAPKIN.

I don't see nothink as _ain't_ different. For mercy's sake, sir, _'oo's_ been alterin' of it like this?

HORACE.

Well, _I_ haven't.

MRS. RAPKIN.

But where are you going to 'ave your dinner-party _now_, sir?

HORACE.

Where? Why, _here_! There's lots of _room_.

MRS. RAPKIN.

But I don't see no dinner-table, nor yet no sideboard.

HORACE.

Never mind--never mind! Don't _make_ difficulties, Mrs. Rapkin. You must manage _somehow_.

MRS. RAPKIN.

I'll try, sir, but--not to deceive you--I feel that upset I 'ardly know where I _am_.

HORACE.

You--you'll get used to it. [_Persuasively._] And you're going to see me through this, I'm sure. I must go and dress now. [_Looking round the hall._] I suppose you haven't any idea where my bedroom is?

MRS. RAPKIN.

I've no idea where _any_ of the rooms has got to, sir!

HORACE.

[_Going to arch down on right._] I expect it's through here.

[_As he goes out, RAPKIN enters
from the arch on left of central
arch. He is respectably
dressed--type of elderly retired
butler; just now he is slightly and
solemnly fuddled._

MRS. RAPKIN.

William, this is a pretty state o' things!

RAPKIN.

What's marrer, M'rire? I'm all _ri'_. On'y bin a-improvin' o' my mind in Public Libery.

MRS. RAPKIN.

Public Libery, indeed! You and your Public Libery.

RAPKIN.

It's pos'tive fac'. Bin p'rusin' En-ensicklypejia Britannia.

[_He stands blinking and slightly
swaying._

MRS. RAPKIN.

But do you mean to say you don't _see_ nothing?

RAPKIN.

[_Muzzily._] Not over distinct, M'rire. Curus opt'cal d'lusion--due to overshtudy--everything's spinnin' round. 'Ave I stepped into Alhambra, or 'ave I not? That's all _I_ want to know.

HORACE.

[_Outside from right._] That you, Rapkin? I want you.

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_To RAPKIN._] You ast _'im_ where you are--he's better able to tell you than I am. I'm going back to my kitching.

[_She hesitates for a moment as to
which arch to go out by, and
finally goes out by the one on
right of central arch._

HORACE.

[_Outside._] Rapkin, I say! [_Then entering from the lower arch on right as soon as MRS. RAPKIN has gone; he is wearing a richly embroidered Oriental robe, &c., and a jewelled turban and plume, of which he is entirely unconscious._] Oh, _there_ you are! Don't stand there gaping like a fish at a flower-show! Where the deuce are my evening clothes?

RAPKIN.

[_Staring at him._] I don't know if it's _'nother_ opt'cal d'lusion--but you appear t' me to ha' gorrem _on_.

HORACE.

Eh, what? Nonsense! [_Suddenly discovering that he is in a robe and turban._] Hang it! I can't dine in these things! Just see if you can't find--no, there's no time. _You_ haven't changed yet! Look sharp, the people will be here in a minute or two--you _must_ be ready to open the door to them.

RAPKIN.

[_Looking round the hall._] I don't seem to see no doors--on'y arches. I _can't_ open a arch--even if it would stay still.

HORACE.

Pull yourself together, man! [_He twists RAPKIN sharply round._] Come, a little cold water on your head will soon bring you round.

RAPKIN.

I'm _comin_' round. Don't see s'many arches already!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Rushing in from arch on right of centre arch._] Oh, William, William! Come away at once!

RAPKIN.

[_Peacefully._] I'm aw'ri, M'rire!

MRS. RAPKIN.

[_Seeing HORACE'S costume._] Oh, Mr. Ventimore, who's been and dressed you up like that? Why, it's 'ardly Christian! [_To RAPKIN._] Come away out of this 'orrible 'ouse, do!

RAPKIN.

What's 'orrible about it?

MRS. RAPKIN.

Everything! Can't you see it's all turned into Arabian 'alls?

RAPKIN.

_Is_ it? [_He suddenly becomes indignant._] 'Oo's bin and took sech a liberty?

MRS. RAPKIN.