[_As he turns to go up to the centre arch, the hangings are drawn back with a rattle, disclosing a smaller hall behind. A row of sinister-looking but richly robed black slaves forms on each side of the arch; a still more richly dressed CHIEF SLAVE salaams to HORACE, and with a magnificent gesture ushers in the PROFESSOR, MRS. FUTVOYE, and SYLVIA, to each of whom the double row of slaves salaam obsequiously, to their intense amazement._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Coming down to the right and looking round him._] Why, why, why? What's all this? Where _are_ we? MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Following him closely._] We've evidently mistaken the house! SYLVIA. [_Following her mother, and suddenly seeing HORACE._] But surely that's--yes, it _is_ Horace! [_At a gesture from their chief, the slaves retire, and he follows._ HORACE. [_With some constraint, but trying to seem at his ease._] Yes, it's _me_ all right. There's no mistake. Most awfully glad to see you! MRS. FUTVOYE. Dear me! [_Coming towards HORACE._] I really didn't recognise you for the moment. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Snappishly._] I don't know who _would_! HORACE. Oh, ah--you mean in _these_ things. I--I must apologise for not dressing, Mrs. Futvoye, but the fact is, I--I found myself like this, and I hadn't time to put on anything else. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Crossing to HORACE._] Any apologies for the simplicity of your costume are _quite_ unnecessary. SYLVIA. You really are magnificent, Horace! _My_ poor frock is simply nowhere! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Glaring round._] I observe that this is a very different room from the one we were in this afternoon. HORACE. Ah, I _thought_ you'd notice _that_! [_Deciding on perfect candour._] I--I'd better _tell_ you about that. The--the fact is---- [_He starts nervously, as the hangings of the centre arch are drawn back once more, the slaves form a double row, and their chief appears, beckoning to some one to follow him._ PRINGLE. [_Heard outside, addressing CHIEF SLAVE._ ] Mr. Pringle. Mr. _Spencer_ Pringle.... Oh, if you can't manage it, it don't matter! [_He enters, and stares at the salaaming slaves, then round the hall._] My _aunt_! HORACE. [_Coming forward._] Here you are, eh, old fellow? [_The slaves go out._ PRINGLE. [_Staring after the slaves._] Yes, here I am. [_Reproachfully, as he observes HORACE'S costume._] You _might_ have told me it was a fancy-dress affair.