"You're very good," said Horace, whose anger had almost evaporated in the relief of the Jinnee's unexpected return, "but I don't think any head can survive this sort of thing long."
"Art thou content with this dwelling I have provided for thee?" inquired the Jinnee, glancing around the stately hall with perceptible complacency.
It would have been positively brutal to say how very far from contented he felt, so Horace could only mumble that he had never been lodged like that before in all his life.
"It is far below thy deserts," Fakrash observed graciously. "And were thy friends amazed at the manner of their entertainment?"
"They were," said Horace.
"A sure method of preserving friends is to feast them with liberality," remarked the Jinnee.
This was rather more than Horace's temper could stand. "You were kind enough to provide my friends with such a feast," he said, "that they'll never come here again."
"How so? Were not the meats choice and abounding in fatness? Was not the wine sweet, and the sherbet like unto perfumed snow?"
"Oh, everything was—er—as nice as possible," said Horace. "Couldn't have been better."
"Yet thou sayest that thy friends will return no more—for what reason?"