PRINGLE. [_At the end of a general chorus of surprise._] Seven or eight thousand! [_Incredulously._] May we know the name of this wonderful client of yours? HORACE. It's a Mr. Samuel Wackerbath, a big City auctioneer, I believe. SYLVIA. Why, he's my godfather! MRS. FUTVOYE. An old friend of ours. Eliza Wackerbath and I were at school together. HORACE. [_To PROFESSOR._] So you see, sir, I--I'm not so badly off as you thought. I can afford to--to launch _out_ a bit. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Somewhat mollified._] Hardly, I should have thought, to _this_ extent. However, in the circumstances, I consent to remain. SYLVIA. [_In an undertone to HORACE._] I thought it was all over with us! HORACE. [_In the same to her._] So did I! But I _think_ I'm out of the cart this time. [_He goes up towards the left, talking to her._ PRINGLE. [_Crossing to the PROFESSOR; in an undertone._] _So_ glad you decided to stay, Professor. I was really half afraid you'd go--as a protest against all this ostentation. [_MRS. FUTVOYE is admiring the workmanship of the hangings._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_In an undertone to PRINGLE._] I should have done so, Pringle, I should have _done_ so--but for the inconvenience of dining elsewhere at this hour. [_Aloud, to HORACE._] Ventimore! _[PRINGLE joins MRS. FUTVOYE._] I don't know if _you_ are getting hungry,--but I own _I_ am. Will it be long before they announce dinner? HORACE. [_Turning, with a start._] Dinner? Oh, I _hope_ not--I mean, I _think_ not. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. I see no table is laid here. [_Acidly._] But probably you have an equally spacious dining-hall adjoining this? HORACE. Yes. That is,--_probably_, you know. I mean, it's quite _possible_. [_The curtains of the arch on left of centre arch are drawn._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Do you mean to tell me you haven't settled yet where we _are_ to dine? HORACE. [_At a loss for an instant, then he suddenly sees the slaves enter from the arch on left, bearing a low round table, which they place in the centre of the hall._] Oh, we dine _here_, of course!--here. I--I leave it to these fellows. [_Four of the slaves fetch cushions and arrange them as seats around the table, the CHIEF SLAVE directing them._ PRINGLE. I say, Ventimore, what an odd idea of yours, having all these black footmen! Don't you find them a nuisance at times? HORACE. Oh, they--they've only come in for the evening. You see--they're--er--quieter than the ordinary hired waiter--and--and they don't blow on the top of your head. SYLVIA. [_In an undertone, nervously._] Horace! I don't like them! They're so creepy-crawly, somehow! HORACE.