[Indignantly.] I'll never wed him!
Fakrash.
Thou wilt not—for he is betrothed to a darker bride.
Horace.
What!
Sylvia.
Ah! [To Horace, coldly.] The—the lady I met last night? I wish you every happiness. [Turning to Pringle.] On second thoughts, Mr. Pringle, I will come to dinner to-night.
[Pringle expresses his gratification.
Horace.