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.