[At back of table.] Not till thou hast told me thy name and the trade that thou followest.
Horace.
Oh, you'll go then? [Fakrash assents.] Well, I'll humour you. My name is Horace Ventimore, and I'm an architect. I get my living by building houses, you know. Or rather, I should, if I could only get hold of a client—which I can't.
Fakrash.
[Coming down nearer bottle.] Grant thy servant a period of delay, and it may be that I can procure thee a client.
Horace.
Good old Arabian Nights again! You'd better not make the delay long—my head will be clear very soon.
Fakrash.
Greater rewards by far will I bestow upon thee, most meritorious of men! But now—[going up to right]—I must leave thee for a season.
Horace.