SCENE II
The "Pinafore" private room at the Savoy Hotel.
At the back is a wide arch, beyond which is a glazed balcony, with a view over the tops of the Embankment trees of the river and the Surrey bank, with the Shot Towers, &c., and the ends of Waterloo Bridge on the extreme left, and of Charing Cross Railway Bridge on the extreme right.
At the rising of the curtain this view is seen in a warm sunset glow.
Above the arch there is a door on the right, leading to the corridor and restaurant; another on the left, by which the waiters come in and go out.
Below the arch, down on the right, is a fireplace; above the fireplace, at right angles to it, a couch, and behind the couch a long flower-stand filled with flowers and palms.
Up the stage, centre, is a round table, laid for six persons, and elaborately decorated with pink Gloire de France roses, under rose-shaded lamp. Six chairs are placed round it, and a seventh chair is in the glazed balcony.
Below the arch, on the left, is another door, and down on left, at a slight angle, a sofa, with occasional tables and chairs. Against the wall on left is a glazed cabinet.
The furniture and decorations are copied from the original room in the Savoy Hotel.
As the curtain rises the Second Waiter is placing the napkins under the supervision of the First Waiter. Waltz music is heard from the restaurant on the right.
Pringle's Voice.
[Outside door above arch, to unseen attendant.] "Entrance from the Embankment as well," eh? Well, why didn't you tell me that? My friends have probably come in that way while I was waiting at the other end! This is the "Pinafore" Room, isn't it? Very well, then—I expect I shall find them in here. [He enters, and looks round the room.] No. They don't seem to have arrived yet.
First Waiter.
[By the table.] Not yet. They vill be here soon.
[The Second Waiter goes out.
Pringle.
Eh? Well, I hope so, I'm sure. They're behind their time as it is. [Inspecting table.] H'm! Not bad. But you needn't have had all those roses—half a dozen would have been quite sufficient. And—hang it all! You've laid for six people!
First Waiter.
Pardon, m'sieu—we receive orders to lay for six person.
Pringle.
Nonsense! Your orders were to lay for four. A "petty party carry"—if you know what that means.
First Waiter.
Parfaitement—but I think perhaps there is some mistake. This is the "Pinafore" Room.
Pringle.
I know that—and the manager told me this morning on the telephone that he's reserved the "Pinafore" Room for me. I'm only expecting three guests, though; so just clear away those two extra places, and look sharp about it.
[The Second Waiter returns.
First Waiter.
But excuse—the manager he say to me——
Pringle.
Confound you, do you suppose I don't know how many people I've asked? Have the table altered at once, or I shall send for the manager.
First Waiter.
[With a shrug.] Bien, m'sieu! You tell me there is a mistake—that is enoff—I alter it.
[He gives orders in an undertone to the Second Waiter, who removes two of the chairs to the balcony, and takes off the corresponding plates, glasses, &c.
Pringle.
[As he comes down to the left.] I sha'n't pay for more than four—mind that! [To himself, as he sits on the couch down left.] It's going to cost me quite enough without that, I can see! [The Westminster Clock-tower is heard striking the quarter; Pringle takes out his watch.] Eight-fifteen! And I asked them for eight sharp. Very singular—the Professor's generally so punctual! [He rises eagerly as the door on right above arch opens.] Ah, here they are! [Horace enters and comes down; Pringle draws himself up stiffly.] What, you, Ventimore! I scarcely expected to see you here to-night.
[The two Waiters go out; the waltz music stops.
Horace.
[Coming down to couch by fireplace.] Didn't you? I rather thought I might run across you, somehow.
Pringle.
[Austerely.] Considering that, when I last saw you, you were flying over the chimney-pots with an Oriental enchanter you had released from a brass bottle——
Horace.
[Seating himself on sofa by fireplace.] Ah! So you haven't forgotten!
Pringle.
It's hardly a thing one would be likely to forget in a hurry. You were being conducted to meet your bride, I think—are you beginning your honeymoon in this hotel?
Horace.
If you want to know, I'm here because I'm dining with the Wackerbaths.
Pringle.
What!—the client I met in your office this morning? Then he must have an uncommonly short memory, that's all! But, whether you're dining with him or not, that's no reason why you should have forced your way in here! I suppose you're hoping that, if you can only see Miss Futvoye——
Horace.
You're wrong, Pringle, quite wrong. I don't in the least expect to see Miss Futvoye here to-night. And I very much doubt if you will, either.
Pringle.
Do you? You wouldn't if you'd heard her parting words to me this afternoon. I said to her: "You won't forget?" Her answer was: "As if I could—after all you've done for us!"
Horace.
It—it's just possible that all of them may have forgotten an engagement which was made under—rather peculiar circumstances.
Pringle.
That's just why they're not likely to forget it. [Going to fireplace, and standing with his back to it.] They may be here at any moment!
Horace.
They may—but, if I were you, I shouldn't count on them.
Pringle.
I do count on them—and I consider your intrusion here in the worst possible taste. I think you might have the decency to go!
Horace.
[Rising.] I tell you I'm here because this is the room which Wackerbath asked me to come to.
Pringle.
It won't do, you know! If it was, he'd be here to receive you—which he isn't.
[As he speaks Mr. Wackerbath bustles in from the door below the arch on the left. Horace goes forward to meet him, Pringle remaining by the fireplace in wrathful astonishment.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Shaking hands effusively with Horace.] My dear Mr. Ventimore, I really don't know how to apologise, neither the wife nor myself down to receive you! I do hope you haven't been waiting long?
Horace.
Only just come, I assure you.
Mr. Wackerbath.
We have a private room, you see—the wife prefers it to the—ah—publicity of the restaurant. [The First and Second Waiters enter from the door on the left above the arch.] If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll just see how they've arranged the table. [He bustles up to the table.] Why, hullo! What's this? Only four places! I ordered dinner for six!
First Waiter.
I regret—but it is not my fault. I lay for six, and a gentleman assure me I am wrong, it is for four person only.
Mr. Wackerbath.
Don't talk about it—put it right at once. I want a chair in here—and another here.
[He remains by the table, while the Waiters replace chairs and bring back plates, glasses, &c.
Pringle.
[To Horace.] Ventimore! [Horace crosses to fireplace.] Will you kindly explain to your host that that's my dinner-table he's taking these liberties with?
Horace.
I know nothing about it. You had better settle that with him yourself.
Pringle.
I intend to—presently.
[He stands, nursing his grievance, as Mr. Wackerbath comes down to Horace.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[To Horace.] Those fellows seem to have mistaken their orders. Lucky I noticed it in time! [Mrs. Wackerbath enters from the door below arch.] Ah, here is my wife! Eliza, my dear—[presenting Horace]—our friend, Mr. Ventimore.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[To Horace, cordially, but with a nervous, fluttered manner.] Oh, how do you do? I am so pleased to meet you! I've been hearing so much about you from my husband. [She goes to sofa on the left, and sits.] It will be so delightful to have a home at last that is really fit to live in!
[Pringle, hearing this, makes a contemptuous ejaculation to himself.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[To Horace.] I ought to tell you this is quite an impromptu little affair. The wife only came up this morning for a day or two in town, and asked some old friends of ours to dinner. So I wired to you on the off-chance of your being free to come and meet them.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
So kind of you to come on such short notice!
Horace.
I was delighted.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[Suddenly realising Pringle's presence; to Mr. Wackerbath.] But, Samuel, aren't you forgetting to introduce your other guest?
Horace.
[To himself foreseeing trouble.] Good Lord!
[He goes up round the table to the glazed balcony.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Surprised, to Mrs. Wackerbath.] My other——? I was not aware——[He turns and sees Pringle, and advances to him.] You must excuse me, sir, but I didn't see you before. I—ah—haven't the pleasure of knowing your name—at present.
Pringle.
[Coming forward.] My name is Pringle. Yours—[meaningly]—is quite well known to me, Mr. Wackerbath.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Gratified, but not surprised.] Ha! Very good of you to say so. And I needn't tell you that any friend of Mr. Ventimore's——
Pringle.
[Tartly.] I am not here in that capacity, sir. I am here because I also am expecting friends to dine with me. And I was certainly given to understand that this room had been reserved for my own party.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[In some distress.] Oh, dear! I am so sorry. I'm afraid I'm to blame. I asked the manager for this room—he told me it was engaged, but he would arrange for you to have the "Patience" Room instead.
Pringle.
I can only assure you that this is the first I've heard of it, or else——
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[Rising.] I quite thought it would be explained to you, and I do so hope the change hasn't put you to any great inconvenience?
Pringle.
[Sourly.] I'm afraid, Mrs. Wackerbath, it has put my guests to considerable inconvenience, as they have presumably been shown into the "Patience" Room, and been waiting there for nearly half an hour—if they haven't already left! So—[making a movement towards the arch]—if you will kindly permit me——
Horace.
[Coming down, and intercepting him; in an under>tone.] You won't find them there, Pringle. They haven't come. They won't come now, I assure you.
Professor's Voice.
[On left, outside door above arch.] This must be the room, Sophia—I observe "Pinafore" on the door.
Pringle.
[In a triumphant undertone to Horace, who is completely staggered.] There! Who's right now? I knew they wouldn't forget!
[He advances to the end of the sofa by fireplace to receive the Futvoyes, while Horace effaces himself so far as possible in the corner behind the flower-stand.
Horace.
[To himself in despair.] That old fool of a Fakrash! He's muffed it again!
[The Futvoyes enter; Mrs. Futvoye first, then Sylvia, and the Professor bringing up the rear.
Pringle.
[Cheerily, to Mrs. Futvoye.] Aha!
[His welcome dies away as they all pass on without seeming to notice any one but Mr. and Mrs. Wackerbath, who advance from the left to receive them. Pringle retreats slightly, and looks on in speechless indignation.
Mr. Wackerbath.
My dear Mrs. Futvoye, delighted to see you—delighted! [As Mrs. Futvoye greets Mrs. Wackerbath, to Sylvia.] And this smart young woman is my little god-daughter, eh? How d'ye do, my dear? [To Professor.] And how is our excellent Professor?
[They converse in by-play; Mrs. Wackerbath takes Mrs. Futvoye to sofa on left; Sylvia goes up towards arch to a place from which she can see neither Horace nor Pringle.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[To Mrs. Futvoye, as they seat themselves.] Dearest
Sophia! We meet so seldom now!
Mrs. Futvoye.
We do indeed, Eliza!
[They talk in undertones.
Pringle.
[By fireplace, to himself, with the deepest disgust.] First my room, and then my guests!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Turning to Mrs. Futvoye, as the Professor joins Sylvia.] I want to introduce a friend of ours—very rising young fellow——[He looks round for Horace, and discovers him by the flower stand.] Ah, there he is—Mr. Ventimore. [Horace pulls himself together and comes forward, not in the least knowing what reception to expect.] Mr. Ventimore, Mrs. Anthony Futvoye.
[Horace bows in considerable anxiety.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Why, my dear Mr. Wackerbath, we know one another quite well already! [To Horace, laughing.] Don't we, Horace?
[Horace takes her hand with obvious relief.
Sylvia.
[Coming down smiling, between Mr. Wackerbath and Horace.] How are you, Horace?
[Horace shakes hands warmly with her.
Professor Futvoye.
[Approaching as Mr. Wackerbath turns to his wife and Mrs. Futvoye, to Horace not over cordially, but without asperity.] How are you, Ventimore? Curious we should meet like this! We were talking about you on our way here—that little dinner of yours, you know.
Horace.
[With reviving anxiety.] That—little dinner, Professor?
Sylvia.
Yes, Horace, we couldn't remember which night it is we're dining with you—is it to-morrow, or the night after?
Horace.
[Relieved again.] Oh, it's to-morrow—to-morrow!
[Pringle has heard all this with a contempt and disgust that are indicated by his expression.
Sylvia.
Then mother was right! I'd fearful misgivings that it was for last night, and that somehow we'd forgotten all about it. Wouldn't that have been too dreadful of us?
Horace.
Oh, I—I don't know. I mean—I could have forgiven even that.
Professor Futvoye.
Ah, now I think of it—[interposing between Sylvia and Horace, and drawing him apart, while Sylvia goes up towards the table]—did you find time to attend that sale for me yesterday?
Horace.
[Blankly.] Oh, yes. I attended it.
Professor Futvoye.
We called at your rooms yesterday afternoon, but you weren't in, so we didn't wait for you. Now tell me—[anxiously]—did you get any of those lots for me, or didn't you?
Horace.
Well, no. I had the most rotten luck.
Professor Futvoye.
[With relief.] It's just as well you didn't—just as well. I doubt now whether I could afford the money. I find I shall be put to considerable expense—for repairs to my study.
[He turns to Mr. Wackerbath, who is on his right. Sylvia comes down, and Pringle advances to greet her, but, finding she evidently sees no one but Horace, he goes up towards the balcony fuming with rage.
Sylvia.
[To Horace.] Come and sit down somewhere, and tell me everything you've been doing.
[Horace takes her to the sofa by the fireplace, where they sit down and talk in dumb show, while Pringle is now hanging about undecidedly near the flower-stand, waiting his opportunity for addressing Sylvia, and furiously jealous at finding her still too absorbed to notice him; Mrs. Futvoye and Mrs. Wackerbath are talking confidentially on the sofa on the left side of the room, and the Professor and Mr. Wackerbath are standing in the centre.
Mr. Wackerbath.
So you and my young friend Ventimore are already acquainted, eh, Professor?
Professor Futvoye.
Why, yes. In fact, he's supposed to be engaged to Sylvia. But, between ourselves, I should feel more satisfied if there was any prospect of his getting work.
Mr. Wackerbath.
My dear Futvoye, you needn't be uneasy about that! Why, this house he's building for me will find him work enough. He's an able young chap, and I shouldn't be surprised if he gave me a perfect palace!
Pringle.
[Who is near enough to hear this, comes down.] What, another palace, Mr. Wackerbath?
Mr. Wackerbath.
[In some astonishment.] Eh? Why, bless my soul, sir, I thought you'd gone to the "Patience" Room long ago!
Pringle.
[Drily.] I found it wasn't necessary. How are you, Professor? [With the air of a host.] Delighted to see you.
Professor Futvoye.
[Shaking hands perfunctorily.] Oh, how are you, my boy, how are you? [Turning his shoulder on Pringle, and continuing to Mr. Wackerbath, as they go up together towards the table, ignoring Pringle.] Wackerbath, about this house of yours?—do I understand that Ventimore is——?
[They talk in dumb show, and during the next few speeches the First Waiter enters, and Mr. Wackerbath gives him an order, after which the Waiter goes out and returns with two cocktails. The Professor sits by the table and Mr. Wackerbath stands as they drink. Pringle meanwhile has returned to the corner of the flower-stand and is no longer able to control his temper.
Pringle.
[To Sylvia, with elaborate sarcasm, as he offers his hand, which she does not see at first.] Good evening, Miss Sylvia, it's really about time that I reminded you of my humble existence.
Sylvia.
[With slightly raised eyebrows, as she shakes hands.] Oh, how do you do, Mr. Pringle? I didn't see you come in.
[Horace sits by in silence, feeling powerless to stop Pringle at present.
Pringle.
[Unpleasantly.] No, you were so much engaged. [In a tone of injury.] And I must say I little expected when I last saw you at Cottesmore Gardens—scarcely seven hours ago——!
Sylvia.
[Smiling, but surprised.] Seven hours! It is more like seven weeks!
Pringle.
[Beaming fatuously.] Charming of you to put it in that way! I was almost beginning to fear that you had forgotten—[with meaning]—our last meeting.
Sylvia.
[Innocently.] In Vincent Square yesterday afternoon? Of course not. I meant since you had been to see us. And that's ages ago!
Pringle.
[Blankly.] Ages ago!
Sylvia.
[Carelessly.] Oh, you said you'd been away, or working hard, or something, didn't you? I forgive you. And so you are dining with Mr. and Mrs. Wackerbath, too?
Pringle.
[Stiffly.] With Mr. and Mrs.——! Pardon me, but I am under the impression that I am to have the honour of entertaining you.
Sylvia.
[Rising; Horace rising as she does.] Entertaining us! Why, what could have made you think that?
Pringle.
[In a low voice.] And you can throw me over like this! After all I've done for you? Oh, Sylvia!
Sylvia.
[Coldly.] I don't understand you a bit this evening, Mr. Pringle. But there may have been some mistake. I will go and ask mother about it.
[She crosses to behind the sofa on which Mrs. Futvoye is seated, and talks to her in dumb show, Mrs. Futvoye appearing surprised by what she hears. Meanwhile.
Pringle.
[In a savage undertone to Horace.] This is your work! I see how it is—you've made 'em all knuckle down, somehow!
Horace.
[Earnestly, in an undertone to him.] It isn't that, my dear fellow. They've forgotten—utterly forgotten everything. And so will you if you're a wise man.
Pringle.
They may pretend to forget if they like! But I'm hanged if I do!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Who has risen, leaving Sylvia to talk to Mrs. Wackerbath, now advances to Pringle.] What is this Sylvia tells me, Mr. Pringle? Surely you haven't been expecting us to dine with you to-night?
Pringle.
I not only have been, I am, my dear lady.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Then my husband must have——[Turning to the Professor, who is by the table talking to Mr. Wackerbath.] Anthony! [The Professor comes down.] Have you accepted an invitation from Mr. Pringle for to-night without telling me? How could you be so forgetful?
Professor Futvoye.
My memory has not begun to fail yet, Sophia. [To Pringle.] My dear Pringle, I can only say that I received no such invitation. We had no engagement for this evening till Mrs. Wackerbath kindly rang my wife up this afternoon.
[He takes a chair on the left by Mrs. Wackerbath, and talks to her.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Your invitation must have been lost in the post, Mr. Pringle.
Pringle.
Hardly, as it happened to be given—and accepted—by word of mouth, Mrs. Futvoye. However, since you seem to have found a subsequent engagement more attractive, I have, of course, no option but to release you.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Release us! But, my dear Mr. Pringle, when we've assured you——
Pringle.
[Interrupting her with chilly magnanimity.] Pray say no more. I quite understand the situation—quite.
[Mrs. Futvoye rejoins Sylvia, while Mr. Wackerbath, who has gradually drawn nearer, now comes forward genially.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[To Pringle.] I think, sir, we can find a simple way out of this little difficulty. If you will waive the point of my being—ah—personally unknown to you, and give my wife and myself the pleasure of joining our little party—[the others suppress their dismay]—we shall all be happy.
Pringle.
Well, Mr. Wackerbath, if you think it will contribute to the general gaiety, I—I don't mind if I do join your party.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Astonished, and with a touch of hauteur.] H'm! That's very obliging of you! [Looking round.] Where are those waiter-fellows?
[He goes up beyond the arch and beckons; the First and Second Waiters come in, and he explains in dumb show that he wants another cover laid. One waiter rearranges the chairs, the other brings plate and glasses. Mr. Wackerbath then seems to find that the table is too near the balcony, and orders it to be moved down, which is done under his instructions.
Sylvia.
[As Mr. Wackerbath goes up to find the waiters, to her mother, in an undertone.] Mother, what is the matter with Mr. Pringle? He seems quite—quite odd.
Mrs. Futvoye.
I can't make him out at all, my dear. He seems to be offended with us—and for no reason that I can see.
Sylvia.
Nor I.
[They continue the conversation in dumb show, while the Professor, on a chair, is talking to Mrs. Wackerbath on the sofa on the left.
Pringle.
[In an undertone to Horace, as they stand by the fireplace on the right.] I suppose you know why I've accepted that fellow's hospitality?
Horace.
Not in the least—but I hope you don't mean to abuse it.
Pringle.
I mean to show up the lot of you! I'm going to be the skeleton at your feast.
Horace.
"An agreeable rattle," eh?
Pringle.
It's too sickening! All of 'em grovelling and cringing to you because they're in a blue funk of that old Fakrash! You've managed to get him under control again!
Horace.
[With much earnestness.] Now, my dear fellow—I'll explain everything when we're alone. But, for Heaven's sake, take my advice and keep quiet here!
Pringle.
[Roughly.] I'm not afraid of you, or your Jinnee either—he rather took to me! And if the Futvoyes choose to drop me like this, I'm not going to take it lying down—I can make them look pretty foolish!
Horace.
You'll be the only one to look foolish—upon my honour, you will!
Pringle.
We'll see about that! You can't shut my mouth!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[The Waiters having gone out, now comes down and addresses Mrs. Futvoye.] They tell me we shall have to wait a few minutes longer—but they'll be as quick as they can.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
Oh, Samuel, the Professor has just been telling me about such an extraordinary affair that happened this morning—in his own study! Have you heard?
[Horace starts; Pringle prepares to assume the offensive.
Mr. Wackerbath.
Not a word—not a word. What was it, Futvoye? Nothing, I hope, of—ah—an unpleasant nature!
Pringle.
[Striking in before the Professor can reply.] "Unpleasant"? Oh, dear no! [Coming forward to centre.] Quite an ordinary occurrence! Ha-ha!
[General surprise.
Mrs. Futvoye.
[With annoyance.] I don't know why Mr. Pringle should choose to answer for my husband. [To Mr. Wackerbath.] We considered it most unpleasant. In fact, we can only be thankful it was no worse!
Pringle.
But are you thankful? I haven't noticed any signs of it, so far!
Horace.
[In his ear.] Shut up, can't you?
Mrs. Futvoye.
Really, Mr. Pringle! [To Mr. Wackerbath.] I was about to say—when Mr. Pringle interrupted me—that my husband found, on going into his study after lunch this afternoon, that it was completely wrecked.
Mr. Wackerbath.
Wrecked? You don't say so!
Mrs. Futvoye.
Everything—bookcases, all his ancient glass and pottery——
Professor Futvoye.
A valuable mummy!
Mrs. Futvoye.
Absolutely smashed to atoms!
Mr. Wackerbath.
Dear me! How unfortunate! [To the Professor.] And have you any clue to the—ah—culprit?
Pringle.
[With a wild sardonic laugh.] Ho-ho! He's no idea who the—ah—culprit is. Have you, Professor?
[Renewed astonishment.
Professor Futvoye.
[Glaring at Pringle.] I can only surmise. My theory is that burglars must have broken in during the night, and that the scoundrels, disgusted at finding nothing of any value to them, revenged themselves by doing this irreparable damage.
Pringle.
Bravo, Professor! Does you credit, that theory of yours! Most ingenious! Must have been burglars, of course! With gout in all their four legs—eh, Mrs. Futvoye?
[Mrs. Futvoye regards him with puzzled displeasure.
Horace.
[In Pringle's ear.] Will you hold your confounded tongue!
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[To the Professor.] The wretches! But what a mercy that you weren't disturbed!
Pringle.
Oh, the Professor wasn't disturbed—not he! "Preserved perfect calm and self-control from first to last"—didn't you, Professor?
Professor Futvoye.
[Acidly.] As I was sound asleep during the whole business, sir, I presume I did.
Pringle.
Ha-ha! Sound asleep, eh? But you must have had a touch of nightmare when I saw you.
Professor Futvoye.
When you——! [Rising and coming towards him.] How and when could you possibly have seen me, Pringle?
Pringle.
Oh, in your study. When you were lashing out at everything—with your hind legs.
[General sensation; Mrs. Wackerbath and Mrs. Futvoye both rise, and, with Sylvia, come somewhat nearer Pringle.
Professor Futvoye.
With my hind legs!... D'you know, my dear Pringle, you're talking rather wildly?
Pringle.
It won't do, Professor, it won't do! I was there, remember. And lucky for you I was—or you'd be a wall-eyed mule at this very moment. [Exasperated by the Futvoyes' apparent astonishment.] Oh, it may suit you to forget it now—but you were all three—especially Sylvia—grateful enough to me then!
[Increased sensation.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Grateful to you? May I ask what for?
Pringle.
I suppose you won't deny that I was the only one who could tackle Ventimore's old Jinnee?
Mrs. Futvoye.
[In a tone of hopeless bewilderment.] Horace! Does he mean that pleasant elderly landlady of yours?
Pringle.
As if you didn't know, Mrs. Futvoye! I mean the old demon, or whatever he may be, that Ventimore let out of that brass bottle.
All the Others (except Horace).
[Together.] Brass bottle! What brass bottle? What is he talking about?
Pringle.
I'm talking about the bottle he bought for you at that auction yesterday, Professor. You can surely remember that?
Professor Futvoye.
I certainly did ask him to attend a sale. [Approaching Horace.] But I understood you to say just now, Ventimore, that you bought nothing for me?
Horace.
That is so, Professor. As I told you, I was—unlucky.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Regarding Pringle with dignified displeasure.] You seem to me, sir, to be endeavouring to be—ah—facetious.
Pringle.
[Turning on him.] No more facetious, Mr. Wackerbath, than you were when I saw you this morning in Ventimore's office.
Mr. Wackerbath.
I didn't go to Mr. Ventimore's office. I entirely forgot the appointment—an unusual thing for me.
Pringle.
Oh, no. You did an even more unusual thing. You were there—running about on all fours, and yelping like a dog!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Hardly believing his own ears.] Running about on all fours! Yelping like a dog! Me? Me!
Pringle.
Yes, you. The Jinnee made you do it, if you remember, because you declined to live in that palace he built for you in a single night. And you didn't seem to like the idea of having to cross Westminster Bridge on all fours!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[With dignity.] I'm afraid, sir, that when you accepted my invitation just now, you overlooked the fact that you had been dining already.
Pringle.
I haven't dined since last night—in that Arabian hall of Ventimore's, with black slaves to wait, and dancing-girls. Professor, don't pretend you've forgotten those dancing-girls!
[Everybody speechless with indignation and surprise, except the Professor, who comes towards him with concern.
Professor Futvoye.
[Soothingly, to Pringle.] There, there—you mustn't get excited about it. [He turns, and takes Mr. Wackerbath aside.] It's not what you think. Poor fellow! His only excess is overwork. [Turning to Pringle again.] Now, now, Pringle, my dear fellow, you're not—not quite yourself, you know—not quite yourself! Take my advice and go quietly home, and ask your doctor to come and have a look at you.
Pringle.
[Staggered.] So—so you're trying to make out now that—that I'm mad, are you?
Professor Futvoye.
Mad? No, no—only a little out of sorts. You've been working rather too hard, you know, that's all! All you want is a thorough rest.
Mr. Wackerbath.
Yes, yes. A sea-voyage, now. Trip round the world. Set you up in no time!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Approaching Pringle.] Do go round the world, Mr. Pringle. You'll come back cured of all these fancies!
Pringle.
[Reeling back a step or two.] Fancies!... Ventimore! [Horace goes to him, while the others form a group on the left and discuss Pringle's case with pitying concern.] I've been a fool—I see that now. They're not pretending—they really have forgotten!
Horace.
Completely. Fakrash hasn't foozled that—for a wonder! I ought to have included you; but—well, one can't think of everything—I forgot. I can only say I'm sorry.
Pringle.
But they all think I'm mad! [He sinks on the sofa by fireplace.] You know I'm not that! [With sudden doubt.] Am I?
Horace.
[Patting him on the shoulder.] Not a bit, my dear fellow,—you're as sane as I am.
Pringle.
[With relief.] I knew I was! But tell 'em so—tell 'em it's all true!
Horace.
I can't. They'd only think I was mad, too.
Pringle.
[In despair.] But you must get me out of this somehow,—or I shall be ruined! Who'd employ a mad architect?
Horace.
[Reflecting.] I'll get you out of it, if I can. But I shall have to stretch the truth a bit,—so mind you back up everything I say.
Pringle.
I will—I will! I'll say anything, do anything!
Horace.
Then here goes! [He turns to the others, and comes towards centre.] Oh, er—Mrs. Wackerbath—[the others break off their conversation and listen to him]—I've found out what's the matter with Mr. Pringle,—and I know you'll all be glad to hear that it's nothing serious. [Murmur of sympathetic relief from the others.] It seems he's been spending the afternoon with his dentist, and—[turning to Pringle]—was it two or three back teeth you had out, Pringle?
Pringle.
[Sullenly.] One. Only one.
Horace.
[To the others.] Only one. But under an anæsthetic. [To Pringle, as before.] Nitrous oxide, Pringle, or ether?
Pringle.
I can't say—I didn't inquire.
Horace.
[To the others.] Naturally—he wouldn't inquire. But—well, you know what ef—I mean, anæsthetics are!
All (except Pringle).
To be sure! Yes, yes. Of course!
Horace.
They give you the queerest dreams. And, just before, as it happens, Mr. Pringle had been reading "The Arabian Nights." [To Pringle.] You did say "The Arabian Nights," didn't you?
Pringle.
"The Arabian Nights"—yes. I read it regularly.
Horace.
[To the others, airily.] Which probably accounts for his dreams. And, in some exceptional cases, the Efreets—I mean, the effects—don't go off altogether for hours after the operation. Mr. Pringle thinks he can't have been thoroughly awake——
Pringle.
[Rising.] But I am now—I am now!
Horace.
Oh, he is now—quite serious and sensible, and generally himself again.
[A general murmur of polite satisfaction.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Advancing towards Pringle.] I'm sure I'm very pleased to hear it, Mr. Pringle! Especially as it permits us to hope that we may still have the—ah—pleasure of your company.
[The others echo this sentiment in a somewhat half-hearted manner.
Pringle.
You're extremely kind—but I think perhaps I shall be better at home.
Mrs. Futvoye.
[In a motherly tone.] I'm sure you will, dear Mr. Pringle. What you ought to do is to go to bed and get a good night's sleep.
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Obviously relieved.] Ah, well, I won't insist—I won't insist. Perhaps you will give us some other evening?
Pringle.
[With extreme stiffness.] I'm obliged to you—but I dine out very seldom. Good-night. [He crosses to Mrs. Futvoye and shakes hands with her, and bows to Mr. and Mrs. Wackerbath, after which Mr. Wackerbath takes Mrs. Futvoye up to the glazed balcony to see the river, which by this time is in bright moonlight, the Professor, after having said good-night to Pringle, following with Mrs. Wackerbath. Pringle then turns to Sylvia, who is standing on the extreme left.] Good-night, Miss Sylvia. May I offer my congratulations? I can only hope that you may be as happy—as happy as—as possible.
[Faint waltz music is heard from the restaurant.
Sylvia.
[Quietly.] Thanks so much, Mr. Pringle, I think I shall. [Giving him her hand.] Good-night.
[She goes up and joins the group in the glazed balcony.
Pringle.
Good-night. [He turns to Horace.] One moment, Ventimore!
Horace.
Oh, I'm coming to the door with you, old fellow.
[He is about to go up with him, when Pringle detains him.
Pringle.
I only wanted to ask you this. [Lowering his voice.] Where is that Jinnee of yours now?
Horace.
[Standing by the sofa by fireplace.] Well,—do you see that patch of silver on the water just above the bridge—[pointing to the left]—where they're all looking?
Pringle.
Yes, I see that. What about it?
Horace.
Only that, somewhere under that patch, old Fakrash is lying, snugly curled up inside his bottle.
Pringle.
[Incredulously.] What!
Horace.
I happen to know, because I dropped it there myself this afternoon inside a kit-bag.
Pringle.
Well, I must say I'm glad you've got rid of him. And—er—you can rely on me to keep quiet about it for the future.
Horace.
[Drily.] My dear chap, I feel sure I can.
Pringle.
[Going up to the door on right above the arch.] Good-night. [Disconsolately.] I shall go and get something to eat at an "A.B.C."
Horace.
[Going up with him.] Good-night, old fellow. It's rough on you, but I did my best!
Pringle.
[Turning on him with resentment.] You needn't have told 'em I'd had three teeth out! Good-night.
[He goes out, Horace closing the door after him. Waltz music from restaurant on right. After he has gone, Mr. Wackerbath and the others turn from the river as the Second Waiter enters and places a slice of melon on each plate.
Mr. Wackerbath.
Oh, ready, eh? [The First Waiter enters and intimates that dinner is served.] Then shall we sit down, Mrs. Futvoye? [He goes to the chair at the top of the table with his back to the balcony, and places Mrs. Futvoye on his right.] Professor—[as Mrs. Wackerbath takes the chair at the bottom of the table, facing the river]—on my wife's left, please. Sylvia, my dear, next to me. [Sylvia takes the chair on Mr. Wackerbath's left; Horace still standing.] And you, Mr. Ventimore——[Observing that there are two places.] Stay, there's something wrong. Oh, of course! [To the First Waiter.] Take away that chair, it won't be wanted now—the other gentleman has gone.
First Waiter.
Gone! De gentleman vat give so moch trouble? He vill not come back?
Mr. Wackerbath.
Come back? [To Horace.] You don't think your friend is likely to do that, eh, Mr. Ventimore?
Sylvia.
Oh, I hope not!
[The others assent fervently.
Horace.
[Pausing in the act of taking the sixth chair.] It's all right. My friend—[with a glance at the bridge on the left]—the gentleman who gave so much trouble, is—[with a slow smile of deep satisfaction]—not in the least likely to come back!
[He sits down by Sylvia as another and a louder burst of waltz music is heard from the restaurant and the curtain falls.
THE END.
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