[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.