Pringle.
But they all think I'm mad! [He sinks on the sofa by fireplace.] You know I'm not that! [With sudden doubt.] Am I?
Horace.
[Patting him on the shoulder.] Not a bit, my dear fellow,—you're as sane as I am.
Pringle.
[With relief.] I knew I was! But tell 'em so—tell 'em it's all true!
Horace.
I can't. They'd only think I was mad, too.
Pringle.
[In despair.] But you must get me out of this somehow,—or I shall be ruined! Who'd employ a mad architect?