[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.