Sylvia.
[Triumphantly.] You hear, Mr. Pringle? He doesn't even know! Now will you dare to repeat what you were saying—to his face?
Pringle.
If you insist. I've been saying, Ventimore, that I believe you to have inspired this abominable transformation of the Professor.
Horace.
It's true, then? He—he really is a mule?
Sylvia.
[Disengaging herself, with a sudden doubt.] Horace, tell me—did you send any one to father!
Horace.
[Sinking into chair by sofa.] Heaven forgive me! I did.