[Horace shakes hands warmly with her.
Professor Futvoye.
[Approaching as Mr. Wackerbath turns to his wife and Mrs. Futvoye, to Horace not over cordially, but without asperity.] How are you, Ventimore? Curious we should meet like this! We were talking about you on our way here—that little dinner of yours, you know.
Horace.
[With reviving anxiety.] That—little dinner, Professor?
Sylvia.
Yes, Horace, we couldn't remember which night it is we're dining with you—is it to-morrow, or the night after?
Horace.
[Relieved again.] Oh, it's to-morrow—to-morrow!
[Pringle has heard all this with a contempt and disgust that are indicated by his expression.