Professor Futvoye.
I shall take very good care he does that—if he marries Sylvia at all!
[He lowers his voice still more, and the conversation continues in dumb show, Pringle by his manner showing that he is doing all in his power to prejudice Horace while ostensibly defending him. The slaves return, clear away cushions, and remove the table.
Horace.
[To Mrs. Futvoye, while Sylvia stands slightly apart with a somewhat resentful expression.] It's awfully kind of you to be so nice about it—but I know only too well you can't really have enjoyed it. It was a shocking bad dinner from start to finish!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Tolerantly.] Oh, you mustn't say that! Perhaps, next time, if you could tell your landlady not to scent all the dishes quite so strongly with musk——
Horace.
I shall certainly mention that—if I get the chance. [Looking across at the Professor, whose temper is evidently rising.] I'm afraid the Professor won't get over this in a hurry.
Mrs. Futvoye.