[His welcome dies away as they all pass on without seeming to notice any one but Mr. and Mrs. Wackerbath, who advance from the left to receive them. Pringle retreats slightly, and looks on in speechless indignation.
Mr. Wackerbath.
My dear Mrs. Futvoye, delighted to see you—delighted! [As Mrs. Futvoye greets Mrs. Wackerbath, to Sylvia.] And this smart young woman is my little god-daughter, eh? How d'ye do, my dear? [To Professor.] And how is our excellent Professor?
[They converse in by-play; Mrs. Wackerbath takes Mrs. Futvoye to sofa on left; Sylvia goes up towards arch to a place from which she can see neither Horace nor Pringle.
Mrs. Wackerbath.
[To Mrs. Futvoye, as they seat themselves.] Dearest
Sophia! We meet so seldom now!
Mrs. Futvoye.
We do indeed, Eliza!
[They talk in undertones.