[_Going to the HEAD SLAVE, who salaams as he approaches._] Can you understand if I ask a question? [_The HEAD SLAVE salaams again._] Well, I--I know it seems a silly thing to ask--but--but you don't happen to be sent here by--by anybody with a name something like Fakrash? [_The HEAD SLAVE implies by a gesture that this is so._] You _have_!... Well, look here. _I_ don't want 'em. I decline to take 'em in. You have all these things put on the camels again, and clear out! Do you see what I mean? [_By this time the other slaves have gone; the HEAD SLAVE signifies in pantomime that the things are HORACE'S, salaams, and goes out, the door closing behind him mysteriously._] I don't believe that idiot understands _now_! They've gone off to fetch _more_! MRS. RAPKIN. [_Who has returned to window._] They've gone off altogether, sir. I can't see nothink now but a cloud of dust. HORACE. [_Sinks into chair on right of table with his head buried in his hands._] The fools! The confounded fools! MRS. RAPKIN. [_Comes to table and looks for HORACE in vain._] Sir! Sir! [_Sees him over the bales, &c._] Sir! Where _are_ you going to 'ave your dinner-party _now_? HORACE. [_Forlornly._] Oh, I don't know--I don't know! Don't worry me now, Mrs. Rapkin! Go away! Can't you see I want to think--I want to _think_! MRS. RAPKIN. [_As she goes towards door at back._] Well, I _must_ say and I _do_ say that if this _'ad_ to 'appen, it couldn't have come more ill-convenient! [_She goes out._ [_As soon as she has gone HORACE rises and comes to an antique-looking trunk on left; he opens it, and brings out an enormous emerald and ruby, each the size of a cocoa-nut; he looks at them for a moment in dismay, and drops them back with a groan. Then he crosses to a sack on the right, opens it, and brings out an immense diamond. While he is doing all this, FAKRASH has risen from among the bales behind the table, and watches him with benign complacency._ HORACE. [_As he returns the diamond to the sack._] Oh! damn it all! FAKRASH. My son! HORACE. [_Recoiling on sacks._] I'm not dreaming _now_! I'm awake! And yet--all that story of yours about your being shut up in a brass bottle? I _did_ dream _that_--eh? FAKRASH. Nay, it is even as I told thee. HORACE. And it _was_ you who sent me all these things? FAKRASH. A few trifling gifts by no means suited to thy dignity! Thou owest me no thanks. HORACE. I--I'd rather not owe you _anything_. I mean--I can't possibly accept any presents from you. FAKRASH. Nay, they are freely thine. HORACE.