[Mrs. Futvoye and Pringle express disgust and indignation.
Horace.
You're devilish hard on me, all of you. [He staggers to the sofa in front of sliding-doors and falls back, hitting his head against The Mule's nose; The Mule makes a grab at him; he rises in confusion.] I—I beg your pardon, sir!
[He retreats to the left of the sofa.
Sylvia.
[Down on left, to Fakrash.] But you won't obey him any longer, will you? You are going to restore poor father?
Fakrash.
[On the right.] Let him first swear that he and all his household will preserve secrecy concerning this affair.
The Mule.