[_Appeased._] Oh, is _that_ it? [_Going to divan on right._] I sha'n't be sorry to rest my back against something. [_Sitting._] You'd better sit down yourself, Sophia. MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Placidly._] I was going to, Anthony. [_She sits on the PROFESSOR'S left_. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Plenty of room for _you_, Pringle. [_PRINGLE seats himself on PROFESSOR'S right._] I think I might feel better after a cup of strong coffee--_Turkish_ coffee--and perhaps a glass of _liqueur_ brandy. [_As the CHIEF SLAVE moves up to the centre arch without paying any attention to him._] As you said, Pringle, the attendance is disgraceful! [_Raising his voice, and calling across to HORACE._] Ventimore, is your--ah--major-domo--going to bring us our coffee and what not _soon_? HORACE. At once, Professor, at _once_! [_He claps his hands, and the CHIEF SLAVE stalks forward majestically._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. And a cigar--a _good_ cigar, if it's not asking too much? HORACE. What _am_ I thinking of? Of course! [_To the CHIEF SLAVE._] Serve coffee at _once_, please. [_The CHIEF SLAVE expresses in pantomime that he fails to understand HORACE'S desires._] I said "Coffee." _You_ know what coffee is! [_Apparently the CHIEF SLAVE does not._] I never saw such a fellow! Well, _cigars_, then! Come, you _must_ know _them_! Things to smoke? [_He imitates the action of smoking. The CHIEF SLAVE seems to take this as a dismissal. He salaams, motions to the other slaves to retire, upon which they all go out, then salaams once more and stalks off._] That beggar must be a born idiot! _I_ can't make him understand. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Drily._] So I perceive. No matter, I must do without my usual after-dinner coffee, that's all! But at least, Ventimore, you _must_ know where to lay your hand on your cigar-box! HORACE. I did--before the place was altered so,--but I'm not sure if----[_He rises._] I'll just go and have a look in my bedroom. [_He crosses and goes out by the lower arch on the right._ PRINGLE. [_To the PROFESSOR._] Seems to me that Oriental hospitality has been rather over-rated! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Gloomily._] Ah! I know I wish I'd ordered our cab for ten o'clock, instead of eleven! Receiving us with all this ostentation, and yet grudging us the most ordinary comforts--I _can't_ understand it! PRINGLE. [_Rising._] It may be his notion of humour. [_As he moves across to_ SYLVIA._] If you and Mrs. Futvoye and Miss Sylvia will only give me the pleasure of dining with me some night at the Holborn,--or rather the Savoy--I would endeavour to wipe out the memory of this evening's sufferings. [_He takes HORACE'S place by SYLVIA'S side._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.