Professor Futvoye.
Plenty of room for you, Pringle. [Pringle seats himself on Professor's right.] I think I might feel better after a cup of strong coffee—Turkish coffee—and perhaps a glass of liqueur brandy. [As the Chief Slave moves up to the centre arch without paying any attention to him.] As you said, Pringle, the attendance is disgraceful! [Raising his voice, and calling across to Horace.] Ventimore, is your—ah—major-domo—going to bring us our coffee and what not soon?
Horace.
At once, Professor, at once!
[He claps his hands, and the Chief Slave stalks forward majestically.
Professor Futvoye.
And a cigar—a good cigar, if it's not asking too much?
Horace.
What am I thinking of? Of course! [To the Chief Slave.] Serve coffee at once, please. [The Chief Slave expresses in pantomime that he fails to understand Horace's desires.] I said "Coffee." You know what coffee is! [Apparently the Chief Slave does not.] I never saw such a fellow! Well, cigars, then! Come, you must know them! Things to smoke? [He imitates the action of smoking. The Chief Slave seems to take this as a dismissal. He salaams, motions to the other slaves to retire, upon which they all go out, then salaams once more and stalks off.] That beggar must be a born idiot! I can't make him understand.
Professor Futvoye.