Sylvia.
You really are magnificent, Horace! My poor frock is simply nowhere!
Professor Futvoye.
[Glaring round.] I observe that this is a very different room from the one we were in this afternoon.
Horace.
Ah, I thought you'd notice that! [Deciding on perfect candour.] I—I'd better tell you about that. The—the fact is——
[He starts nervously, as the hangings of the centre arch are drawn back once more, the slaves form a double row, and their chief appears, beckoning to some one to follow him.
Pringle.
[Heard outside, addressing Chief Slave.] Mr. Pringle. Mr. Spencer Pringle.... Oh, if you can't manage it, it don't matter! [He enters, and stares at the salaaming slaves, then round the hall.] My aunt!
Horace.