Horace.
I do notice a coolness. But why? You were chummy enough not half an hour ago!
Fakrash.
[Going from him towards right.] I had not then discovered thy treachery.
Horace.
You're barking up the wrong tree, as usual, you know. Come—tell me what it's all about?
Fakrash.
Not now. I will deal with thee hereafter, misbegotten cur that thou art!
[He stalks towards window.
Mrs. Futvoye.