I say, Ventimore, what an odd idea of yours, having all these black footmen! Don't you find them a nuisance at times?
Horace.
Oh, they—they've only come in for the evening. You see—they're—er—quieter than the ordinary hired waiter—and—and they don't blow on the top of your head.
Sylvia.
[In an undertone, nervously.] Horace! I don't like them! They're so creepy-crawly, somehow!
Horace.
[Suppressing his own antipathy.] After all, darling, we—we mustn't forget that they're men and brothers. [To the others, as the Chief Slave advances to him and makes elaborate gesticulations.] I think what he means is that dinner is served. Shall we sit down?
Mrs. Futvoye.
I don't see any chairs.
Horace.