Horace.
[Going to the Head Slave, who salaams as he approaches.] Can you understand if I ask a question? [The Head Slave salaams again.] Well, I—I know it seems a silly thing to ask—but—but you don't happen to be sent here by—by anybody with a name something like Fakrash? [The Head Slave implies by a gesture that this is so.] You have!... Well, look here. I don't want 'em. I decline to take 'em in. You have all these things put on the camels again, and clear out! Do you see what I mean? [By this time the other slaves have gone; the Head Slave signifies in pantomime that the things are Horace's, salaams, and goes out, the door closing behind him mysteriously.] I don't believe that idiot understands now! They've gone off to fetch more!
Mrs. Rapkin.
[Who has returned to window.] They've gone off altogether, sir. I can't see nothink now but a cloud of dust.
Horace.
[Sinks into chair on right of table with his head buried in his hands.] The fools! The confounded fools!
Mrs. Rapkin.
[Comes to table and looks for Horace in vain.] Sir! Sir! [Sees him over the bales, &c.] Sir! Where are you going to 'ave your dinner-party now?
Horace.
[Forlornly.] Oh, I don't know—I don't know! Don't worry me now, Mrs. Rapkin! Go away! Can't you see I want to think—I want to think!