"No, no," said Horace; "eccentric, that's all—you don't understand him."
"Receive news!" began the Jinnee, after Beevor, with suspicion and disapproval evident even on his back and shoulders, had retreated to his own room, "Suleyman, the son of Daood, sleeps with his fathers."
"I know," retorted Horace, whose nerves were unequal to much reference to Solomon just then. "So does Queen Anne."
"I have not heard of her. But art thou not astounded, then, by my tidings?"
"I have matters nearer home to think about," said Horace, dryly. "I must say, Mr. Fakrash, you have landed me in a pretty mess!"
"Explain thyself more fully, for I comprehend thee not."
"Why on earth," Horace groaned, "couldn't you let me build that house my own way?"
"Did I not hear thee with my own ears lament thy inability to perform the task? Thereupon, I determined that no disgrace should fall upon thee by reason of such incompetence, since I myself would erect a palace so splendid that it should cause thy name to live for ever. And, behold, it is done."
"It is," said Horace. "And so am I. I don't want to reproach you. I quite feel that you have acted with the best intentions; but, oh, hang it all! can't you see that you've absolutely wrecked my career as an architect?"
"That is a thing that cannot be," returned the Jinnee, "seeing that thou hast all the credit."