Horace.
[Alone on stage.] What's to be done now? Can't dine here! [The front door bell rings with a long jangling tingle.] There they are! What am I to do with 'em? It'll have to be the Carlton, after all! [He glances down at his robes.] Can't go like this, though! [He tries to take off his turban.] This damned thing won't come off! [Searching himself for money.] And where are my pockets? [With resigned despair.] Well, I suppose I must let them in, and—and tell 'em how it is!
[As he turns to go up to the centre arch, the hangings are drawn back with a rattle, disclosing a smaller hall behind. A row of sinister-looking but richly robed black slaves forms on each side of the arch; a still more richly dressed Chief Slave salaams to Horace, and with a magnificent gesture ushers in the Professor, Mrs. Futvoye, and Sylvia, to each of whom the double row of slaves salaam obsequiously, to their intense amazement.
Professor Futvoye.
[Coming down to the right and looking round him.] Why, why, why? What's all this? Where are we?
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Following him closely.] We've evidently mistaken the house!
Sylvia.
[Following her mother, and suddenly seeing Horace.] But surely that's—yes, it is Horace!
[At a gesture from their chief, the slaves retire, and he follows.