PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. He's no business to--just after he's engaged to my daughter! PRINGLE. Ah! It's a thousand pities. Still--he _may_ give up some of this magnificence, when he's married. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. I shall take very good care he does that--if he marries Sylvia at all! [_He lowers his voice still more, and the conversation continues in dumb show, PRINGLE by his manner showing that he is doing all in his power to prejudice HORACE while ostensibly defending him. The slaves return, clear away cushions, and remove the table._ HORACE. [_To MRS. FUTVOYE, while SYLVIA stands slightly apart with a somewhat resentful expression._] It's awfully kind of you to be so nice about it--but I know only too well you can't _really_ have enjoyed it. It was a shocking bad dinner from start to finish! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Tolerantly._] Oh, you mustn't say _that_! Perhaps, _next_ time, if you could tell your landlady not to scent _all_ the dishes _quite_ so strongly with musk---- HORACE. I shall certainly mention _that_--if I get the chance. [_Looking across at the PROFESSOR, whose temper is evidently rising._] I'm afraid the Professor won't get over _this_ in a hurry. MRS. FUTVOYE. Perhaps I'd better go and see how he's feeling. [_She crosses, leaving HORACE with SYLVIA._ HORACE. [_To SYLVIA._] I can guess how _you're_ feeling about this. SYLVIA. [_Coldly._] Can you? Then it isn't necessary for me to tell you. HORACE. No, I--this little dinner of mine hasn't turned out quite as we _expected_, has it? SYLVIA. I don't know what _you_ expected--_I_ thought it was going to be so delightful!... How _could_ you be so foolish? HORACE. You see, dear, you don't understand how it all came about yet. If you'd only let me tell you---- SYLVIA. I think you had much better say no more about it. HORACE. Ah, but I can't! I _must_ get it off my chest. [_Before he can begin the slaves enter once more, and shift the divans on either side to lower and rather more oblique positions, after which the HEAD SLAVE approaches HORACE, and makes signs._] What do you want? SYLVIA. [_Clinging to HORACE._] Oh, don't let him come too near me! HORACE. [_As the CHIEF SLAVE repeats the signs._] He sha'n't, darling--but he's quite friendly. He's only suggesting that we should sit down. [_HORACE and SYLVIA sit on the divan on left. The CHIEF SLAVE turns to PROFESSOR and repeats the gestures._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Puzzled and irritable._] What does he want me to do _now_? MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Soothingly._] Why, to sit down, of course, and take your coffee _comfortably_. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.