No. It—it's such a low table, you see. So we sit on cushions. M—much better fun!
Professor Futvoye.
[Grimly.] May I ask if the entire dinner is to be carried out on strictly Arabian principles?
Horace.
[Helplessly.] I—I rather think that is the idea. I hope you don't mind, Professor?
Professor Futvoye.
I am in your hands, sir, in your hands! Sophia!
[He indicates to Mrs. Futvoye that she is expected to sit down, and seats himself on the right of table with many precautions; Horace leads Mrs. Futvoye to a cushion on his right, and establishes Sylvia on his left, inviting Pringle to the place below Mrs. Futvoye and opposite the Professor. A slave brings on a large covered golden dish, which he places on the table in front of Horace.
Horace.
[With a pathetic attempt to be cheery, as another slave raises the cover.] Ha! Now we shall see what they've given us!