Chapter II: Act IV: Scene I. Ventimore's Rooms (2)

Ah, you may well ask! Oh, Mr. Ventimore. [_Crossing to HORACE._] You've a deal to answer for, _you_ 'ave!

RAPKIN.

What? _'Im?_ _'E's_ done it all?

HORACE.

Mrs. Rapkin, don't _you_ lose your head! I depend on _you_, you know. Get your husband away and make him sober--or the dinner's _bound_ to come to grief!

MRS. RAPKIN.

Dinner indeed! And me unable to get into my own kitching for them nasty niggers o' yours as is swarmin' there like beedles! The gell's bolted already, and you and me'll go next, William, for stay under this roof with sech I _won't_!

[_She drags RAPKIN by the arm to
arch up on right._

HORACE.

I say, Mr. Rapkin, don't you two desert me now! Just _think_ of the hole I'm in!

MRS. RAPKIN.

Bein' a 'ole of your own makin', sir, you can get out of it yourself! Come, William!

RAPKIN.

I'm comin', M'rire! [_As he is dragged through arch by MRS. RAPKIN._] You'll 'ear _more_ o' this, Mr. Ventimore!

HORACE.

[_Alone on stage._] What's to be done now? Can't dine _here_! [_The front door bell rings with a long jangling tingle._] There they are! What am I to _do_ with 'em? It'll _have_ to be the Carlton, after all! [_He glances down at his robes._] Can't go like _this_, though! [_He tries to take off his turban._] This damned thing won't come off! [_Searching himself for money._] And where are my pockets? [_With resigned despair._] Well, I suppose I must let them in, and--and tell 'em how it is!

[_As he turns to go up to the
centre arch, the hangings are drawn
back with a rattle, disclosing a
smaller hall behind. A row of
sinister-looking but richly robed
black slaves forms on each side of
the arch; a still more richly
dressed CHIEF SLAVE salaams to
HORACE, and with a magnificent
gesture ushers in the PROFESSOR,
MRS. FUTVOYE, and SYLVIA, to
each of whom the double row of
slaves salaam obsequiously, to
their intense amazement._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Coming down to the right and looking round him._] Why, why, why? What's all this? Where _are_ we?

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Following him closely._] We've evidently mistaken the house!

SYLVIA.

[_Following her mother, and suddenly seeing HORACE._] But surely that's--yes, it _is_ Horace!

[_At a gesture from their chief,
the slaves retire, and he follows._

HORACE.

[_With some constraint, but trying to seem at his ease._] Yes, it's _me_ all right. There's no mistake. Most awfully glad to see you!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Dear me! [_Coming towards HORACE._] I really didn't recognise you for the moment.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Snappishly._] I don't know who _would_!

HORACE.

Oh, ah--you mean in _these_ things. I--I must apologise for not dressing, Mrs. Futvoye, but the fact is, I--I found myself like this, and I hadn't time to put on anything else.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Crossing to HORACE._] Any apologies for the simplicity of your costume are _quite_ unnecessary.

SYLVIA.

You really are magnificent, Horace! _My_ poor frock is simply nowhere!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Glaring round._] I observe that this is a very different room from the one we were in this afternoon.

HORACE.

Ah, I _thought_ you'd notice _that_! [_Deciding on perfect candour._] I--I'd better _tell_ you about that. The--the fact is----

[_He starts nervously, as the
hangings of the centre arch are
drawn back once more, the slaves
form a double row, and their chief
appears, beckoning to some one to
follow him._

PRINGLE.

[_Heard outside, addressing CHIEF SLAVE._ ] Mr. Pringle. Mr. _Spencer_ Pringle.... Oh, if you can't manage it, it don't matter! [_He enters, and stares at the salaaming slaves, then round the hall._] My _aunt_!

HORACE.

[_Coming forward._] Here you are, eh, old fellow?

[_The slaves go out._

PRINGLE.

[_Staring after the slaves._] Yes, here I am. [_Reproachfully, as he observes HORACE'S costume._] You _might_ have told me it was a fancy-dress affair.

HORACE.

It isn't. I--I'll explain presently.

PRINGLE.

[_Sees the FUTVOYES, and crosses to them._] How do you do again, Miss Sylvia? How are you, Mrs. Futvoye? We meet sooner than we expected, eh? [_Turning to the PROFESSOR._] Well, Professor, I suppose _you_ weren't surprised at finding our good host in--[_he looks round the hall again_]--this exceedingly snug little sanctum? I must confess _I_ am.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

My dear fellow, you can't be more surprised than _we_ are!

PRINGLE.

[_With satisfaction._] You don't mean it! [_Turning to HORACE, who is on the other side of the hall, talking to MRS. FUTVOYE and SYLVIA_.] Then you've only just got this place finished, eh, Ventimore?

HORACE.

That's all, Pringle.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

To build and decorate such a place as this must have cost a very considerable sum of money.

HORACE.

You'd _think_ so, wouldn't you? But it _didn't_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Coming towards him._] And that costume you're wearing, those negroes in rich liveries, all this senseless profusion and display we see around us--are you going to tell me _they_ haven't cost you anything?

HORACE.

I--I was going to explain about that. It's a most extraordinary thing, but--well, you remember that old brass bottle I showed you this afternoon?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Remember it? Of course I remember it! But what of it, sir, what _of_ it?

HORACE.

Why--er--in a manner of speaking--everything you see here has--er--more or less--come out of that bottle----

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Infuriated._] That is enough, sir, that is enough! You choose to give me a frivolous answer! I will not submit to be treated like this--I would rather leave the house at once. And I _will_, too!

[_He makes a movement towards the
arch. SYLVIA and her mother look
on in distress, and PRINGLE with
secret gratification._

HORACE.

No, but I haven't finished! You see, it was like this: When I _opened_ the bottle----

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Savagely._] Tchah! As you seem unable to realise that this is not a fit time for fooling, I will not stay here to be trifled with. Sophia, Sylvia, we must find some other place to dine in!

SYLVIA.

[_Going to HORACE, and speaking in a rapid undertone._] Horace! Can't you see? He _means_ it. You _must_ be serious--or else----!

HORACE.

[_To her._] Yes, I see.... Professor, I'm sorry. I--I never thought you'd be annoyed. All I _really_ meant by--by my feeble little joke was to tell you--in a sort of figurative way, do you see?--that--that my luck has turned at last.

THE OTHERS.

[_Together._] Turned? _How_ turned? What do you mean?

HORACE.

Well, I've got a client.

THE OTHERS.

[_As before._] A client? How? Where? When?

HORACE.

Just after you all left this afternoon. A clinking good client, too! He's asked me to build him a big country-house, and my commission can't come to less than seven or eight thousand pounds.

PRINGLE.

[_At the end of a general chorus of surprise._] Seven or eight thousand! [_Incredulously._] May we know the name of this wonderful client of yours?

HORACE.

It's a Mr. Samuel Wackerbath, a big City auctioneer, I believe.

SYLVIA.

Why, he's my godfather!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

An old friend of ours. Eliza Wackerbath and I were at school together.

HORACE.

[_To PROFESSOR._] So you see, sir, I--I'm not so badly off as you thought. I can afford to--to launch _out_ a bit.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Somewhat mollified._] Hardly, I should have thought, to _this_ extent. However, in the circumstances, I consent to remain.

SYLVIA.

[_In an undertone to HORACE._] I thought it was all over with us!

HORACE.

[_In the same to her._] So did I! But I _think_ I'm out of the cart this time.

[_He goes up towards the left,
talking to her._

PRINGLE.

[_Crossing to the PROFESSOR; in an undertone._] _So_ glad you decided to stay, Professor. I was really half afraid you'd go--as a protest against all this ostentation.

[_MRS. FUTVOYE is admiring the
workmanship of the hangings._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_In an undertone to PRINGLE._] I should have done so, Pringle, I should have _done_ so--but for the inconvenience of dining elsewhere at this hour. [_Aloud, to HORACE._] Ventimore! _[PRINGLE joins MRS. FUTVOYE._] I don't know if _you_ are getting hungry,--but I own _I_ am. Will it be long before they announce dinner?

HORACE.

[_Turning, with a start._] Dinner? Oh, I _hope_ not--I mean, I _think_ not.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I see no table is laid here. [_Acidly._] But probably you have an equally spacious dining-hall adjoining this?

HORACE.

Yes. That is,--_probably_, you know. I mean, it's quite _possible_.

[_The curtains of the arch on left
of centre arch are drawn._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Do you mean to tell me you haven't settled yet where we _are_ to dine?

HORACE.

[_At a loss for an instant, then he suddenly sees the slaves enter from the arch on left, bearing a low round table, which they place in the centre of the hall._] Oh, we dine _here_, of course!--here. I--I leave it to these fellows.

[_Four of the slaves fetch cushions
and arrange them as seats around
the table, the CHIEF SLAVE
directing them._

PRINGLE.

I say, Ventimore, what an odd idea of yours, having all these black footmen! Don't you find them a nuisance at times?

HORACE.

Oh, they--they've only come in for the evening. You see--they're--er--quieter than the ordinary hired waiter--and--and they don't blow on the top of your head.

SYLVIA.

[_In an undertone, nervously._] Horace! I don't like them! They're so creepy-crawly, somehow!

HORACE.

[_Suppressing his own antipathy._] After all, darling, we--we mustn't forget that they're men and brothers. [_To the others, as the CHIEF SLAVE advances to him and makes elaborate gesticulations._] I think what he means is that dinner is served. Shall we sit down?

MRS. FUTVOYE.

I don't see any _chairs_.

HORACE.

No. It--it's such a low table, you see. So we sit on cushions. M--much better fun!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Grimly._] May I ask if the entire dinner is to be carried out on strictly Arabian principles?

HORACE.

[_Helplessly._] I--I rather think that _is_ the idea. I hope you don't _mind_, Professor?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I am in your hands, sir, in your hands! Sophia!

[_He indicates to MRS. FUTVOYE
that she is expected to sit down,
and seats himself on the right of
table with many precautions;
HORACE leads MRS. FUTVOYE to a
cushion on his right, and
establishes SYLVIA on his left,
inviting PRINGLE to the place
below MRS. FUTVOYE and opposite
the PROFESSOR. A slave brings on
a large covered golden dish, which
he places on the table in front of
HORACE._

HORACE.

[_With a pathetic attempt to be cheery, as another slave raises the cover._] Ha! Now we shall see what they've _given_ us!

[_The expressions of the party
indicate that, whatever the food
may be, its savour is not exactly
appetising._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I should just like to remark that, having lived in the East myself and had considerable experience of native cooking, I expect to be extremely unwell to-morrow.

HORACE.

Let's hope for the best, Professor, hope for the best! [_Turning to the_ CHIEF SLAVE behind him._] But, I say! You've forgotten the knives and forks. Nobody has any! What _are_ these fellows about? [_The CHIEF SLAVE explains in pantomime that fingers and thumbs are all that is necessary._] Eh? Do _without_ them? Dip into the dish and help ourselves? Oh--if you say we've _got_ to! [_To MRS. FUTVOYE._] Mrs. Futvoye, can I persuade you to--er--have first dip?

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Really, Horace, I must get my gloves off _first_!

[_She removes them._

HORACE.

It _does_ seem a little messy. But _quite_ Arabian, you know--quite _Arabian_!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Vainly trying to reach the dish._] I'm such a long way off!

HORACE.

Yes. I think we'd better all--er--close up a bit.

[_They all work themselves up
uncomfortably on their respective
cushions nearer the table._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_As HORACE takes MRS. FUTVOYE'S and SYLVIA'S right hands and guides them to the dish._] And he calls this a simple, ordinary little dinner!

CURTAIN

THE SECOND ACT

_The scene is the Arabian Hall--an
hour later. The slaves are offering
the guests water in golden bowls,
and insisting on wiping their hands
for them, an attention which the_
PROFESSOR resents._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Ventimore!

HORACE.

[_Seated in utter dejection._] Yes, Professor?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I infer from the fact that the last course seemed to be something in the nature of--ah--_sweets_----

[_MRS. FUTVOYE and PRINGLE
exchange glances, and sigh
audibly._

HORACE.

They _were_ rather beastly, weren't they?

[_A slave takes the PROFESSOR'S
hands with great respect, and
inserts them into the bowl._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

As I was saying, I infer from that, and the circumstance that your attendant has _again_ attempted to wash my hands, that the--ah--banquet has come to an end. Is that so?

HORACE.

[_Miserably._] I _hope_ so! I mean--I _think_ so.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Then, as I have been suffering agonies of cramp from having had to sit for an hour on a cushion with my legs crossed, I should be glad, with your permission, to stretch them again.

HORACE.

So sorry! Mrs. Futvoye, shall we----?

[_He helps MRS. FUTVOYE and
SYLVIA to rise. PRINGLE has also
risen; the PROFESSOR remains on
his cushion._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

_I_ should be glad of some slight assistance.

[SYLVIA comes to him_; HORACE
and MRS. FUTVOYE are by the
divan on the left._

PRINGLE.

[_Crossing in front of table._] Allow me, Professor, allow me!

[_He helps him to his feet._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Thank you, Pringle, thank you. A word with you--[_drawing him away to the right, while SYLVIA joins her mother and Horace up on the left._]--Pringle. [_Lowering his voice._] I declare to you that never, _never_ have I been called upon to swallow a more repulsive and generally villainous meal! And that in a life which has had its--ah--ups and downs!

PRINGLE.

It's the same here, I can assure you. I don't understand our host's partiality for Arab cookery. And the _wine_! [_With a reminiscent shudder._] _Did_ you try the wine?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I did. It must have been kept in a goat-skin for years! And yet he must have spent a perfectly scandalous amount on this preposterous banquet of his!

PRINGLE.

A small fortune! Ah, well--I suppose he feels entitled to indulge in these costly fancies--_now_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

He's no business to--just after he's engaged to my daughter!

PRINGLE.

Ah! It's a thousand pities. Still--he _may_ give up some of this magnificence, when he's married.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

I shall take very good care he does that--if he marries Sylvia at all!

[_He lowers his voice still more,
and the conversation continues in
dumb show, PRINGLE by his manner
showing that he is doing all in his
power to prejudice HORACE while
ostensibly defending him. The
slaves return, clear away cushions,
and remove the table._

HORACE.

[_To MRS. FUTVOYE, while SYLVIA stands slightly apart with a somewhat resentful expression._] It's awfully kind of you to be so nice about it--but I know only too well you can't _really_ have enjoyed it. It was a shocking bad dinner from start to finish!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Tolerantly._] Oh, you mustn't say _that_! Perhaps, _next_ time, if you could tell your landlady not to scent _all_ the dishes _quite_ so strongly with musk----

HORACE.

I shall certainly mention _that_--if I get the chance. [_Looking across at the PROFESSOR, whose temper is evidently rising._] I'm afraid the Professor won't get over _this_ in a hurry.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Perhaps I'd better go and see how he's feeling.

[_She crosses, leaving HORACE
with SYLVIA._

HORACE.

[_To SYLVIA._] I can guess how _you're_ feeling about this.

SYLVIA.

[_Coldly._] Can you? Then it isn't necessary for me to tell you.

HORACE.

No, I--this little dinner of mine hasn't turned out quite as we _expected_, has it?

SYLVIA.

I don't know what _you_ expected--_I_ thought it was going to be so delightful!... How _could_ you be so foolish?

HORACE.

You see, dear, you don't understand how it all came about yet. If you'd only let me tell you----

SYLVIA.

I think you had much better say no more about it.

HORACE.

Ah, but I can't! I _must_ get it off my chest. [_Before he can begin the slaves enter once more, and shift the divans on either side to lower and rather more oblique positions, after which the HEAD SLAVE approaches HORACE, and makes signs._] What do you want?

SYLVIA.

[_Clinging to HORACE._] Oh, don't let him come too near me!

HORACE.

[_As the CHIEF SLAVE repeats the signs._] He sha'n't, darling--but he's quite friendly. He's only suggesting that we should sit down.

[_HORACE and SYLVIA sit on the
divan on left. The CHIEF SLAVE
turns to PROFESSOR and repeats
the gestures._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Puzzled and irritable._] What does he want me to do _now_?

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Soothingly._] Why, to sit down, of course, and take your coffee _comfortably_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Appeased._] Oh, is _that_ it? [_Going to divan on right._] I sha'n't be sorry to rest my back against something. [_Sitting._] You'd better sit down yourself, Sophia.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Placidly._] I was going to, Anthony.

[_She sits on the PROFESSOR'S left_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Plenty of room for _you_, Pringle. [_PRINGLE seats himself on PROFESSOR'S right._] I think I might feel better after a cup of strong coffee--_Turkish_ coffee--and perhaps a glass of _liqueur_ brandy. [_As the CHIEF SLAVE moves up to the centre arch without paying any attention to him._] As you said, Pringle, the attendance is disgraceful! [_Raising his voice, and calling across to HORACE._] Ventimore, is your--ah--major-domo--going to bring us our coffee and what not _soon_?

HORACE.

At once, Professor, at _once_!

[_He claps his hands, and the
CHIEF SLAVE stalks forward
majestically._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

And a cigar--a _good_ cigar, if it's not asking too much?

HORACE.

What _am_ I thinking of? Of course! [_To the CHIEF SLAVE._] Serve coffee at _once_, please. [_The CHIEF SLAVE expresses in pantomime that he fails to understand HORACE'S desires._] I said "Coffee." _You_ know what coffee is! [_Apparently the CHIEF SLAVE does not._] I never saw such a fellow! Well, _cigars_, then! Come, you _must_ know _them_! Things to smoke? [_He imitates the action of smoking. The CHIEF SLAVE seems to take this as a dismissal. He salaams, motions to the other slaves to retire, upon which they all go out, then salaams once more and stalks off._] That beggar must be a born idiot! _I_ can't make him understand.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Drily._] So I perceive. No matter, I must do without my usual after-dinner coffee, that's all! But at least, Ventimore, you _must_ know where to lay your hand on your cigar-box!

HORACE.

I did--before the place was altered so,--but I'm not sure if----[_He rises._] I'll just go and have a look in my bedroom.

[_He crosses and goes out by the
lower arch on the right._

PRINGLE.

[_To the PROFESSOR._] Seems to me that Oriental hospitality has been rather over-rated!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Gloomily._] Ah! I know I wish I'd ordered our cab for ten o'clock, instead of eleven! Receiving us with all this ostentation, and yet grudging us the most ordinary comforts--I _can't_ understand it!

PRINGLE.

[_Rising._] It may be his notion of humour. [_As he moves across to_ SYLVIA._] If you and Mrs. Futvoye and Miss Sylvia will only give me the pleasure of dining with me some night at the Holborn,--or rather the Savoy--I would endeavour to wipe out the memory of this evening's sufferings.

[_He takes HORACE'S place by
SYLVIA'S side._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Whenever you please, my dear Pringle, whenever you please,--and the sooner the better! Sophia! [_He turns to MRS. FUTVOYE, and discovers that she is gently dozing._] Asleep! How she can _do_ it!--but I won't disturb her now. [_To HORACE, who returns from arch down right._] Well? Have you found your cigars?

HORACE.

[_Standing in centre depressed._] No. There's nothing in there--except that beastly brass bottle. I _am_ so sorry!

SYLVIA.

[_Rising and going to HORACE._] Horace! It _is_ all over, isn't it? You're _sure_ there's nothing _more_ to come?

[_PRINGLE, finding himself
deserted, returns to his place on
the divan by the PROFESSOR._

HORACE.

[_Looking round anxiously._] I--I _hope_ not. No, I think we're all right. We shall have no more trouble now all those black Johnnies have cleared out.

[_At this moment there is a
confused sound of Oriental
instruments outside, with wailing
cries. SYLVIA turns from HORACE,
and goes back indignantly to the
divan on the left. HORACE
follows, and sits by her._

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Waking up as the music stops._] Dear me! What _is_ that horrible noise? Not cats?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Cats! No,--it's Arab music! [_To HORACE._] So you've a _fresh_ surprise in store for us, eh, sir?

HORACE.

[_Forlornly._] It--it _does_ sound rather like it, Professor.

[_Four negro musicians enter,
playing a tom-tom, mandoline,
flageolet, and native fiddle
respectively, while they chant a
weird ditty, and sit cross-legged,
right and left of the central
arch._

SYLVIA.

[_As the music stops._] Horace, this is really _too_ bad of you! You _assured_ me there was nothing more coming!

[_She turns her shoulder on him
with marked displeasure._

PRINGLE.

So you keep a private band, do you, Ventimore?

HORACE.

No, no,--of course I don't. It--it's only engaged for the evening.

PRINGLE.

I see. Hired from the Arab encampment at Earl's Court, eh?

HORACE.

[_Irritated._] You've guessed it first time, Pringle!

PRINGLE.

That's odd. Because, now I come to think of it, there _isn't_ any Arab encampment there this season.

HORACE.

Then they come from somewhere else. At all events, they're playing here for nothing.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Ah! They know their own value!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

Now, Anthony, you're finding fault before they've even _begun_! [_She rises._] That was only _tuning_, of course! [_She passes in front of the MUSICIANS, and then comes down to HORACE._] Can they play _English_ music? _Do_ ask them if they know "The Choristers."

HORACE.

I'm afraid they're not at all likely to be familiar with it.

[_The MUSICIANS begin once more,
and MRS. FUTVOYE retreats hastily
to the divan, as they sing and play
for a few bars in hideous
cacophony._

PRINGLE.

[_As they stop once more._] Vocal as _well_ as instrumental, eh? Are they going to give us any _more_ little things like that, Ventimore?

HORACE.

No. Not if I know it! They've _done_ now!

[_At this the music starts again,
louder and more discordant than
ever._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Springing to his feet in a fury, and shouting._] Ventimore! You _must_ put a stop to this abominable din! Do you hear? I can't and won't put up with it!

HORACE.

[_Rising, and going to the MUSICIANS._] Here, you chaps! Hi! That's enough! [_He claps his hands._] Get out! Get _out_!

[_The MUSICIANS seem to treat
this as an encouragement, for they
play with more vigour than ever;
then, as they reach the climax, the
music changes to slower strains, in
which some sort of air is
recognisable, and a troop of
ORIENTAL DANCING GIRLS come
writhing and posturing in from the
arches on right and left of the
centre arch. HORACE recoils in
horror, and collapses on the divan
by SYLVIA'S side._

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Making her voice carry above the music._] And do these young persons come from Earl's Court, _too_?

HORACE.

[_Wildly._] No! Oh, _dear_ no! _They_ come from--from Harrod's. The Entertainment Department, don't you know!

[_He sits paralysed as the
PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL suddenly
floats down from the central arch,
and executes a slow and sinuous
Oriental dance in the middle of the
other performers. The PROFESSOR
and his wife exchange scandalised
comments, and PRINGLE endeavours
to look shocked and grieved._

HORACE.

[_As the PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL has glided down opposite him, and stands posturing, with her eyes fixed on his face; to SYLVIA._] I--I don't think she's _bad_.

SYLVIA.

[_Coldly._] Don't you? I'm perfectly _sure_ she is!

HORACE.

No, no. She--she's a _lady_ and all that. They _all_ are. Highly respectable girls! They only give their dances at _private_ parties.

SYLVIA.

I don't think you need have engaged them for _yours_! _Really_, Horace!

[_The music stops; all, except the
PRINCIPAL DANCER, who remains
standing and smiling at HORACE,
fall on their hands and faces in a
line across the stage._

HORACE.

It was a mistake. But I'll get rid of them! [_He rises and goes towards the PRINCIPAL DANCER._] It's charming--charming--but that will _do_, you know. You can go away now. You can _all_ of you go away!

[_The PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL,
with a swift, sudden movement,
throws herself at his feet and
embraces his knees; SYLVIA starts
up indignantly. The PROFESSOR,
MRS. FUTVOYE, and PRINGLE rise
also._

PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL.

[_In Arabic, in a tone of adoring submission._] Yah Sidi! Yah noor ainy! Yah nass al Kalbi Sidi!

HORACE.

[_To the others._] She is a little hysterical, that's all--the artistic temperament. [_As he succeeds in freeing himself._] I don't know what on earth she's talking about! I _fancy_ she says she's feeling seedy.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Who has come down on the right._] "Sidi"--as you may well know--is the ordinary Arabic word for "Master," and, if I follow her correctly, she is calling you her Protector, the Light of her Eyes, and the Vital Spirit of her Heart!

[_The PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL has
fallen on her hands and face in
front of the others._

SYLVIA.

Oh! So _this_ is what you were trying to confess to me!

HORACE.

She's quite _mistaken_, you know. _I'm_ not the light of her eyes, I've never seen her before in all my life!

SYLVIA.

You think I believe _that_! [_She rushes across to MRS. FUTVOYE._] Oh, mother--mother!

HORACE.

Professor, _you_ know Arabic. Couldn't you get these people to understand that they aren't wanted?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Coming forward._] I intend to. [_In Arabic._] Eerga dugghery gowan illa bait bettah Harrood!

[_As he speaks all the dancing
girls raise their heads in horror,
then rise screaming and holding
their hands to their ears, and rush
out through arches, followed by the
musicians. The moment they
disappear through the arches all is
silent._

PRINGLE.

[_Coming down to centre._] They weren't long in taking _your_ hint, Professor. What _did_ you say to them?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Rather puzzled._] I merely told them, in the best Arabic I could command, to go back to Harrod's at once.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

I am quite sure they cannot have come from _Harrod's_!

HORACE.

You're perfectly right, Mrs. Futvoye. They _didn't_.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Advancing to him._] After _that_ admission, you will hardly be surprised if I tell you--as I _do_--that you may consider your engagement to my daughter at an end.

HORACE.

At an end! Why, what have I _done_?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Done, sir, done? You ask _that_, after grossly insulting my wife and daughter by this--this outrageous exhibition!

[_He goes up, followed by PRINGLE._

HORACE.

[_Going to MRS. FUTVOYE._] Mrs. Futvoye, _you_ don't misunderstand me, I'm sure?

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_Icily._] For _once_, I entirely agree with my husband, and I believe Sylvia herself will tell you----

[_She turns, and joins the
PROFESSOR on the left._

HORACE.

No, she won't? _Will_ you, Sylvia? _You_ won't give me up?

SYLVIA.

What else _can_ I do?

HORACE.

What else? Why, trust me, stick to me--in spite of everything and everybody!

SYLVIA.

After what I've just seen! No, that's _too_ much to expect!--unless, of course, you've some satisfactory explanation?

HORACE.

Well, I _have_--if you'll all promise to _listen_ to it--you wouldn't when I tried to explain before, you know. Now you _must_ hear me out! [_They all prepare to listen attentively._] It's like this. Sylvia wasn't far wrong about that beastly jar I bought this afternoon--there _was_ a Jinnee inside it.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. ) ) What? How dare you, sir--how _dare_ ) you trifle with us like this? ) ) MRS. FUTVOYE. ) ) Disgraceful! To stand there talking ) such nonsense--at such a time! ) _All_ ) _speaking_ SYLVIA. ) _together._ ) Turning it all into a _joke_! Oh, how ) can you--how _can_ you? ) ) PRINGLE. ) ) Upon my word, Ventimore, you ought ) to be ashamed of yourself! )

HORACE.

There you _are_, you see! You _won't_ give me a hearing! I _ought_ to know what was inside the bottle, considering I let it out. Fakrash-el--_what_ did he tell me his name was?--oh, Aamash--Fakrash-el-Aamash. He's a Jinnee. Of the _Green_ Jinn.

PRINGLE.

Well, _we're_ not Green Jennies!

HORACE.

[_Losing his temper._] Shut up, Pringle! This is _my_ story--and you'll be good enough to let me finish it. Well, according to old Fakrash, he'd been sealed up in that bottle by Solomon----

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

What, in the name of common sense, has all this to do with the case?

HORACE.

I'm coming to that, if you'll only have a little patience. Naturally, he was grateful to me for letting him out, and, in a weak moment, I--I blurted out that you were all coming to dinner here to-night. And what does the old idiot do but transform my rooms into these halls, and provide the whole entertainment himself! And--as might be expected--it was pretty rotten!

[_He sinks on the divan on right in
despair, as he sees the general
incredulity._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Ha! And you seriously expect us to believe this cock-and-bull story as an explanation--unsupported by any kind of proof?

HORACE.

Not _unsupported_, Professor! How about these halls?

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

_They_ are only evidence of your unbridled extravagance, sir! Where is this precious Jinnee you talk about? Produce him--let me see him with my own eyes, and I might--but, bah! you won't venture to accept that challenge, I'm sure of that!

[_He crosses to MRS. FUTVOYE and
PRINGLE._

HORACE.

It's unfortunate--but Fakrash has--er--left the country. I don't expect him back for some time--if at all.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Nor I, sir, nor _I_! Sophia, you and Sylvia had better go to the vestibule and get your things on.

MRS. FUTVOYE.

I am only too anxious to go. [_To SYLVIA._] Come, darling.

[_She moves towards arch on right._

SYLVIA.

[_In sudden alarm._] Mother! _Not_ with all those horrid dancing-girls and things! _They're_ in there!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

[_At arch._] Trust me to deal with _them_!

[_She goes out with SYLVIA._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Going up and calling after them._] Make haste, Sophia! We must walk till we get a cab, that's all!

HORACE.

[_Who has risen._] Professor, don't go yet. I've just remembered. If you'll only wait a moment, I believe I can bring you something to prove I've been telling the simple truth.

[_He goes out by lower arch on
right._

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Approaching PRINGLE._] "Prove he's been telling the truth!" You heard _that_, Pringle? Did you ever hear such bare-faced impudence in all your life?

PRINGLE.

[_Virtuously._] Never, Professor, never! I _quite_ share your indignation. Perhaps I may be allowed to accompany you? I am going your way.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Do so, Pringle; do so, my dear fellow. As we may have to walk some distance, my daughter will be glad of your escort. [_As MRS. FUTVOYE and SYLVIA appear from arch up right._] Ah, they're ready, I see. Go and get your coat on and bring mine, and we'll leave at once.

PRINGLE.

[_With alacrity, as he goes up._] By all means, Professor! I won't be a minute.

[_He goes out by the arch up
right._

HORACE.

[_Returning at the same moment from lower arch on right._] I've had a hunt--but I've found it. [_He offers a metal cap to the PROFESSOR._] Now, if you'll only examine _this_, Professor.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

What do you mean by offering me that piece of dirty old metal, sir? Take the thing away!

HORACE.

It's the cap or stopper that belongs to that brass bottle. And, I don't know, but I rather fancy there's something engraved on it.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Eh, what? [_He takes the cap._] So far as I can tell by feeling it, there _does_ seem to be--but what if there is--what if there _is_?

HORACE.

Well, it _might_ refer to a Jinnee having been bottled up by Solomon, don't you know.

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

Bah!--but no matter. [_He slips the cap into his tail-coat pocket._] Whatever it is, I _will_ examine this inscription--after breakfast to-morrow morning. [_Triumphantly._] And I shall _decipher_ it, sir,--you may depend upon that! [_To PRINGLE, who returns with coat and helps him into it._] Thank you, my boy, thank you. Now, Sophia,--if you are ready!

MRS. FUTVOYE.

I am only waiting for _you_, Anthony. [_Frostily, to HORACE._] Mr. Ventimore, I will wish you good-night.

[_She goes out by central arch._

PRINGLE.

[_Approaching SYLVIA._] Good-night, Ventimore. Miss Sylvia--[_offering his arm_]--I am to have the privilege of taking care of you.

SYLVIA.

[_Declining his arm._] Thank you, Mr. Pringle,--but I can quite well take care of myself. [_She turns to HORACE._] Horace, I want to say just this before I go--I _will_ trust you still,--in spite of everything and everybody!

HORACE.

[_Putting his arm round her._] You little _brick_! And you won't have to go on trusting me _much_ longer!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_Interposing and separating them._] That she will not, sir! Let her go! [_HORACE releases SYLVIA, who goes up towards central arch, HORACE attempting to follow her, when he is stopped by the PROFESSOR._] Stay where you are!

[_SYLVIA and PRINGLE pass through
to the outer hall._

HORACE.

Surely I may go as far as the door with her!

PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.

[_By the central arch._] Not another step, sir! One last word. This precious seal of yours will enable me to expose you as a shameless liar. That is all I have to say. _Good_ evening.

[_He goes out. Pause, the front
door is heard to slam._

HORACE.

[_To himself, in despair._] Gone! She's gone! [_He flings himself down on the divan on the left, with his face to the audience._] The Professor may be right--the seal _mayn't_ be Solomon's! How do _I_ know old Fakrash hasn't been lying? And if he has--well, I'm done for! [_FAKRASH suddenly appears through the hangings, comes down to the divan, and touches HORACE on the shoulder; HORACE starts, then swings round to a sitting posture, facing FAKRASH._] Eh? So you _have_ come back!

FAKRASH.

[_Benevolently._] May thy head long survive!

HORACE.

[_Choking with rage._] If you'd only turned up four minutes earlier I could have introduced you to my guests. It's too late _now_!

FAKRASH.

Thou hast dismissed them already?

HORACE.

They've gone, anyhow.

FAKRASH.

[_Beaming._] And were they not astounded by the magnificence of thy dwelling and the liberality of their entertainment?

HORACE.

Distinctly so. But I warn you--don't you press me on the subject of that entertainment. I can't trust myself to talk about it just yet.

FAKRASH.

Render me no thanks.

HORACE.

[_Exasperated._] Thanks! _Thanks!!_

FAKRASH.

I perceive that something hath displeased thee.

HORACE.

[_With an angry laugh._] No, _do_ you? You're getting quite observant! Something jolly well _has_ displeased me. Not so much the banquet--I could pass that--we _did_ pass _most_ of it! [_Rising._] It was what came _after_ the banquet!

FAKRASH.

After the banquet I provided that a company of houris, lovelier than the full moon and graceful as young gazelles, should dance for the delight of thy guests. [_With uneasiness._] Can I have failed in bringing this to pass?

HORACE.

[_Bitterly._] Oh, you brought _that_ off all right--the houris _came_! [_With rising resentment._] And what do you think the Chief Gazelle _did_?... Hugged my knees and called me her lord and protector and the light of her eyes! Pretty good that--for a gazelle!

FAKRASH.

[_With a fatuous smile of approval._] Excellent indeed!

HORACE.

[_Turning on him._] Perhaps, when I tell you that the company included the young lady I was engaged to marry--_and_ her father and mother, and that they put the most unfavourable construction on the houri's behaviour, it _may_ begin to dawn, even on _you_, that you might have been more tactful! I've _lost_ Sylvia now--and all through you and your confounded gazelle!

FAKRASH.

[_Pulling his beard, and appearing slightly disconcerted._] Verily thy fortune is unlucky! But dismiss uneasiness, for to remedy this mischance will be the simplest thing possible.

HORACE.

[_More mildly._] Oh, if you'll do _that_! But how?

FAKRASH.

[_Standing in centre of hall._] By procuring thee another bride of far greater beauty and accomplishments.

HORACE.

[_Striding past him in a fury._] _Another!_ You--you _hopeless_ old ass! _Can't_ you understand?

FAKRASH.

[_Seizing his arm, and bringing him down the stage._] Wait! Thou hast not yet heard the list of her perfections. A forehead shall she have like the gleaming dome of a temple, eyes like unto blazing lamps, a nose that shineth brighter than a sword, teeth resembling pearls strung on native gold, a bosom----

HORACE.

Stop, I tell you! I don't _want_ her--I won't _have_ her! I want Sylvia, and I'll marry nobody else! Just get _that_ into your muddled old head, will you! If you can't pull me out of this mess you've got me into, why the deuce have you come back at all?

[_He sits on the divan on left._

FAKRASH.

I am returned to impart unto thee wondrous intelligence.

HORACE.

Oh? Well, fire away. Take a cushion.

[_Flinging him one from the divan._

FAKRASH.

[_Squatting on cushion._] Hearken! During my wanderings I have learnt that, beyond all doubt, Suleyman, the son of Daood, sleeps with his fathers!

HORACE.

As a matter of fact, he's been doing that for about three thousand years.

FAKRASH.

Sayest thou so? Then--[_cunningly_]--tell me. Doth there still remain any one of Suleyman's seed that exerciseth his authority over them of the Jinn?

HORACE.

No. As soon as you've made things right for _me_, you can go off to your own country and settle down comfortably--there's no power on earth that can interfere with you.

FAKRASH.

Then--before I do thee any further service--bring hither the stopper wherewith my bottle was sealed.

HORACE.

[_Uneasily._] The--the stopper? Oh, nonsense! You can't want that _now_! What for? As a _souvenir_?

FAKRASH.

Nay, but because in all likelihood it is engraven with the mighty seal of Suleyman.

HORACE.

[_Rising excitedly._] I say! Are you _sure_ of that?

FAKRASH.

So it was customary with such vessels. And, bearing such a seal, I shall possess a mighty talisman. [_Rising from his cushion._] Wherefore deliver it into my hands without delay, and I will reward thee by accomplishing all thy desires.

HORACE.

[_In extreme embarrassment._] I--I'd be only too happy to oblige you--if I could. But--well, the fact is, I've just parted with it.

FAKRASH.

[_Advancing on him in sudden fury._] _Parted_ with it! With my seal! O thou of little sense! To whom? To _whom_, I say?

HORACE.

To the father of the lady I was engaged to. He's a learned man, you see, and I knew, if there _was_ anything engraved on the seal, he'd be able to make it out.

FAKRASH.

[_Striding up and down the hall, and brandishing his arms._] Perdition seize thee! For he will assuredly refuse to surrender such a talisman! Woe to me, for I am undone! Undone! Undone!

HORACE.

Don't talk rot! You _aren't_ undone--and nobody wants to undo you! [_FAKRASH utters wild cries._] Don't go howling about like that--sit down again and be sensible.

FAKRASH.

[_Halting opposite HORACE, with a menacing gesture._] Take heed to thyself! For if thou dost not restore my seal immediately----!

HORACE.

[_Facing him composedly._] It's no good trying to bully _me_, you know. _I'm_ not afraid of you. You sit down and be civil, and promise to do exactly as I tell you--or I'm hanged if I help you to get your seal back.

FAKRASH.

[_With sudden self-restraint._] My son, it was naught! Am I not thy servant? On the head and eye be all thy commands!

[_He sits down on the cushion._

HORACE.

Ah, that's better! [_He goes to the divan and gets himself a cushion, then sits facing FAKRASH._] Now I'll tell you an idea that's just struck me--the Professor said himself that nothing would convince him but seeing you with his own eyes. Well--why shouldn't you _go_ to him?

FAKRASH.

[_Eagerly._] Tell me where he hath his abode, and I will visit him this same instant.

[_About to rise._

HORACE.

[_Stopping him._] No, you don't! Just when he'll be turning in! You'll go about ten o'clock to-morrow morning, when he's had his breakfast--or you won't go at all!

FAKRASH.

Be it so! I will restrain my impatience until the morrow. But the place of his dwelling?

HORACE.

Wait a bit. I won't have him rattled. [_FAKRASH looks puzzled._] I mean, no popping up through the floor or down the chimney. You'll just walk quietly up to his front door, and ask to see him. Then you can explain who you are and what you want, and, if you're decently polite, I'm sure the Professor will give you back your property.

FAKRASH.

All these instructions will I observe.

HORACE.

But you can't go in _that_ get-up, or you'll have a crowd of small boys at your heels. Couldn't you raise the sort of costume respectable elderly gentlemen go about in nowadays?

FAKRASH.

I hear and obey. To assume such garb as is worn by aged dwellers in this city will be the simplest affair possible!

HORACE.

All right, then. And you must go to No. 47 Cottesmore Gardens, Kensington, and ask whoever lets you in if you may see Professor Futvoye. Think you can remember all that?

FAKRASH.

[_Rising._] Indelibly is it inscribed upon the tablet of memory. To-morrow, then, at the appointed hour, will I repair to the abode of this sage.

HORACE.

[_Who has risen at the same time as FAKRASH, and thrown the cushions back on the divan._] Good! And you'd better come on to me afterwards and let me know how you got on. Not _here_--at my office, Great College Street, Westminster. Got _that_ down on your tablet?

FAKRASH.

It is done. And now, O young man of abundant talents and obliging disposition, I will take my leave of thee. [_Going to centre of hall._] For I must seek my Palace in the Garden of Irem and repose myself until it be day. But--[_turning_]--ere I depart, tell me by what service I can reward thy kindness?

HORACE.

Well,--if you _really_ want to do me a good turn,--you might change these halls again.

FAKRASH.

What? Are they insufficient for thy dignity?

HORACE.

No, no--they're much too grand! I--I want my old rooms back!

FAKRASH.

[_Pained._] Of what avail is it to confer favours upon _thee_, since thou rejectest them every one!

HORACE.

[_Approaching him, and speaking soothingly._] No, not every one. There was old Wackerbath--the client you sent me--I haven't rejected _him_. I'm going to build him a country-house.

FAKRASH.

Ha! And on what spot is this mansion to be erected?

HORACE.

Oh, he seems to have got an excellent site--on a hill near Lipsfield, between Hampshire and Surrey.

FAKRASH.

[_Touching his own brow._] It is on the tablet! And have no anxiety,--for the palace that will arise shall assuredly be the wonder of the universe!

HORACE.

Very kind of you to say so--when I haven't even begun to work at it yet. And now--about these halls? [_Persuasively._] You _will_ turn 'em back into my old rooms, won't you? You're such a deuced clever old Johnny--I mean, _Jinnee_!

FAKRASH.

Into the mean habitation in which I found thee? Far be this action from me!

HORACE.

[_Impatiently._] Oh, I'm sick of _arguing_ with you--I _command_ you. On the head and on the eye!

RAPKIN'S VOICE.

[_From the outer hall._] Mr. Ventimore! I want a _word_ with you!

HORACE.

[_To FAKRASH, quickly._] You hear? That's my landlord,--it's _his_ house, not mine. Just you change it--quick--before he comes in!

FAKRASH.

[_Standing in centre._] Since thou insisteth. And be of light heart, for by to-morrow all thine affairs will prosper exceedingly!

[_He waves his hand; there is a
sudden and complete darkness for a
few seconds, with the sounds of
rumbling and rushing wind as
before. Above this the RAPKINS'
voices are heard._

RAPKIN'S VOICE.

Turned off the lights, 'as he? But _I'll_ talk to 'im when I _see_ 'im!

MRS. RAPKIN'S VOICE.

Don't let go of my 'and, Rapkin! I _know_ there's some o' them nasty niggers about!

RAPKIN'S VOICE.

'Im and his bloomin' niggers and Arabian 'alls! [_Bawling._] Mr. Ventimore! You _'ear_ me!

[_The stage has been growing
gradually lighter, and MR. and
MRS. RAPKIN are seen standing
together in the room in which the
play opened._

HORACE.

[_Appearing at bedroom door on right, in smoking suit, holding candle._] Perfectly. [_Blandly._] Anything the _matter_, Rapkin?

RAPKIN.

[_Looking round open-mouthed, and blinking in bewilderment._] Matter, sir? No, sir. Nothink, sir. Not _now_, sir!

HORACE.

[_Sweetly._] Glad to hear it. You'll be all right in the morning. Hot water at the usual time, please. _Good_ night!

[_He goes into his bedroom, leaving
the stage in darkness again as the
curtain falls._

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

THE THIRD ACT

SCENE I

_The scene represents HORACE'S
_office in Great College Street._

_It is a small room, panelled in
dark oak. On the left is an old
mantelpiece in white and yellow
marble. Beyond the fireplace is a
door communicating with PRINGLE'S
_office. On the right is a recessed
window, through which the top of an
old grey wall with chevaux-de-frise
and foliage above can be seen. At
the back, on the right, is a door
leading to the staircase. On the
left of this door, an architect's
cabinet, with narrow drawers for
plans, &c. On the walls are plans
and architectural drawings, a
T-square or two, an office
calendar, and sections of
mouldings, sundry cards of tiling,
ornamental fittings, &c., sent out
by firms as advertisements to
architects. On the right, by the
window, is an architect's
drawing-table, with a sheet of
drawing-paper, tracing-paper,
saucers of colour, and other usual
requisites of an architect._

_The time is 11.30 on the morning
after the preceding acts._

_As the curtain rises, the
Westminster Clock-tower chimes the
half-hour._

HORACE is drawing at the table on
right._

HORACE.

[_To himself, looking at watch._] Half-past eleven already!--and I haven't heard from _either_ of them yet! [_With some anxiety._] Very odd! Can anything have----? [_There is a knock at the door on the left. HORACE turns with a slight start as PRINGLE enters._] Oh, it's you, Pringle! [_After a pause._] None the worse after last night, I hope?

PRINGLE.

[_Very solemnly._] I am feeling no ill-effects at _present_. [_Coming to centre of room._] Can I have a few words with you?

HORACE.

[_Going on designing._] Well, only a _very_ few. We may be interrupted at any moment. I've appointments with _two_ people this morning. Looks as if they'd _both_ overslept themselves.

PRINGLE.

[_Gravely, as he plants himself with his back to the fireplace._] I shall not detain you long. I merely wish to explain my position. When I accepted your invitation last night, I did so with the loyal intention of resigning myself, as cheerfully as possible, to your engagement to Miss Futvoye----

HORACE.

[_Wheeling his chair round so as to face him._] Instead of which you put a spoke in my wheel whenever you got the chance! Not behaving quite decently, _was_ it?

PRINGLE.

[_Stiffly._] After last night, I cannot consider _you_ as an authority on _decency_.

HORACE.

Don't rub it in, Pringle!

PRINGLE.

As I was saying, I came prepared to leave the field to you--for I am not the sort of man to unsettle any girl's affections----

HORACE.

That's your modesty, Pringle! You don't realise how dangerous you _are_!

PRINGLE.

[_Ignoring this._] I was going to say--so long as she continues engaged to _another_. But if Miss Sylvia doesn't recognise yet that you are utterly unworthy of her, she very soon _will_. Then _my_ chance will come--and I've every intention of taking it.

HORACE.

Sorry to discourage you, my dear Pringle--but your chance hasn't come yet, and it's not over likely to come at all.

[_He turns to his work again._

PRINGLE.

She'll never marry you without her father's consent--and if you'd heard him last night in the cab----!

HORACE.

[_Easily._] I daresay. But he'll be very different this morning.

PRINGLE.

[_Who has come nearer to him._] Why, you're not trusting to that trumpery seal of yours to convince him?

HORACE.

No. I'm trusting to something--or rather somebody--[_turning to him_]--who will be more convincing than any seal.

PRINGLE.

It will take a good deal to reconcile him, or any of them, to such an extremely--er--Oriental interior as you rejoice in.

HORACE.

The Oriental interior has gone, Pringle,--vanished into space!

PRINGLE.

Nonsense! How could solidly constructed halls like those vanish in a night?

HORACE.

I don't pretend to know _how_--but they _have_, and that's enough for _me_!

[_He returns to his drawing._

PRINGLE.

[_Going back to fireplace._] And this client of yours--has _he_ vanished, too?

HORACE.

Old Wackerbath? Oh, no; he's much too solid to vanish--he's only a trifle late!

PRINGLE.

I shouldn't make too sure of him.

HORACE.

[_Listening._] I fancy he's coming upstairs now. [_Rises and goes to door at back, then stops with a sudden recollection._] Unless it's the _other_ one!

PRINGLE.

The _other_ one? So you've _two_ clients!

HORACE.

No, only one. The other--isn't a client. [_Half to himself, as he comes down._] Awkward if they happened to _meet_! I never thought of that! [_There is a loud knock at the door to staircase._] Well, here's _one_ of 'em, anyhow! Come in! [_MR. WACKERBATH opens the door, and stands on the threshold, breathing hard, and purple and speechless with rage. HORACE goes towards him._] It _is_ Mr. Wackerbath! How do you do? [_Pleasantly._] I was beginning to be afraid----[_He notices MR. WACKERBATH'S expression._] Eh? Has anything happened?

MR. WACKERBATH.

Happened, sir? Yes, something _has_ happened! Which you'll be good enough to explain--if you _can_!

HORACE.

Oh? [_Turning to PRINGLE._] Perhaps, Pringle, if you wouldn't mind----?

PRINGLE.

[_Moving to the door on the left._] Oh, by all means!

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_To PRINGLE._] Stop, sir! Don't you run away! For all _I_ know, _you_ may have had a hand in this disgraceful business!

PRINGLE.

[_With dignity._] I occupy the adjoining office, sir, and I am in practice as an architect. But I have no business connection with Mr. Ventimore--none whatever.

[_Offering to go._

MR. WACKERBATH.

You will oblige me by staying. I should like your opinion--as an architect--on the way I've been treated.

[_He puts down his hat on the
cabinet by the door._

PRINGLE.

Oh, if Mr. Ventimore has no objection----

HORACE.

Well--oh, stay if you think proper. [_To MR. WACKERBATH, offering armchair on left of table._] Now, sir; if you'll sit down and compose yourself----

MR. WACKERBATH.

I will _not_ sit down, sir, and I find it difficult to compose myself. You know very well _why_!

HORACE.

I don't, indeed. Unless--unless you've discovered the--the means by which you were induced to come to me yesterday. But, after all, there's no great _harm_ done.

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Bursting with rage._] No great harm! You can stand there and tell me _that_!

HORACE.

[_Calmly._] Certainly. If you prefer to go to some other architect, you're perfectly free to do so.

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Frantically._] Free! _Free!!_ When the damned house is _built_!

HORACE AND PRINGLE.

[_Together, each starting back._] Built?

MR. WACKERBATH.

Built, sir, built! When my wife and I saw it on our way to the station this morning, we could hardly believe our eyes. But my coachman--who's not given to imagination--saw it as plain as we did. [_HORACE hears all this with stupefaction at first, and then with growing comprehension._] And, considering I only gave you the commission yesterday afternoon, I should like to know how the devil you managed to put up such a place in the time?

PRINGLE.

My dear sir, as a professional man, let me assure you it would be impossible--quite impossible. It must have been due to some effect of mirage.

MR. WACKERBATH.

Mirage, indeed! We got out of the carriage and climbed the slope and went all over the building! Are you going to tell me we've been all over a _mirage_?

HORACE.

[_Half to himself._] Oh, the blithering old idiot!

MR. WACKERBATH.

[_Turning on him suddenly._] Are you addressing _me_, sir?

HORACE.

No, no; not _you_! Of course not. [_With a groan._] I told him, like a fool, where the site was--and he's done the rest during the night!

[_The door at the back flies open,
and FAKRASH appears. He is
wearing a very tall hat with a wide
flat brim, a frock-coat, baggy
shepherd's plaid trousers fitting
tightly over his ankles, and
Oriental shoes._

FAKRASH.

Greeting to ye, O company!

[_MR. WACKERBATH and PRINGLE turn
in surprise._

HORACE.

[_Sinking helplessly into his chair; half to himself._] It's with _you_, partner! [_In an undertone to FAKRASH._] Take off your hat!

[_FAKRASH removes his tall hat with
both hands, and places it on the
top of MR. WACKERBATH'S hat. MR.
WACKERBATH, annoyed, goes to
cabinet and removes his own hat._

FAKRASH.

[_To MR. WACKERBATH._] If I mistake not, thou art the wealthy merchant for whom this my son hath undertaken to erect a mansion?

MR. WACKERBATH.

I am, sir. And you, I presume, are Mr. Ventimore, senior?

HORACE.

No, he isn't--he's no relation of _mine_!

FAKRASH.

[_To MR. WACKERBATH, proudly._] Is he not an architect of divine skill, and hath he not built thee a palace that might cause even the gall of a Sultan to burst with envy?

MR. WACKERBATH.

It very nearly made _me_ burst, sir, I can tell you that!

FAKRASH.

I marvel not, for verily it is a lordly dwelling for such as thou.

MR. WACKERBATH.

"Lordly!" _You_ can call it what you like. _I_ call it a tom-fool cross between the Brighton Pavilion and the Palm-house at Kew! No billiard-room--and not a sign of any drainage system! And you have the brass--the--the unblushing effrontery to expect me to accept it as a first-class country-house with every modern convenience!

PRINGLE.

I _must_ say that, in all my professional experience, I _never_----

HORACE.