Whenever you please, my dear Pringle, whenever you please,--and the sooner the better! Sophia! [_He turns to MRS. FUTVOYE, and discovers that she is gently dozing._] Asleep! How she can _do_ it!--but I won't disturb her now. [_To HORACE, who returns from arch down right._] Well? Have you found your cigars? HORACE. [_Standing in centre depressed._] No. There's nothing in there--except that beastly brass bottle. I _am_ so sorry! SYLVIA. [_Rising and going to HORACE._] Horace! It _is_ all over, isn't it? You're _sure_ there's nothing _more_ to come? [_PRINGLE, finding himself deserted, returns to his place on the divan by the PROFESSOR._ HORACE. [_Looking round anxiously._] I--I _hope_ not. No, I think we're all right. We shall have no more trouble now all those black Johnnies have cleared out. [_At this moment there is a confused sound of Oriental instruments outside, with wailing cries. SYLVIA turns from HORACE, and goes back indignantly to the divan on the left. HORACE follows, and sits by her._ MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Waking up as the music stops._] Dear me! What _is_ that horrible noise? Not cats? PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Cats! No,--it's Arab music! [_To HORACE._] So you've a _fresh_ surprise in store for us, eh, sir? HORACE. [_Forlornly._] It--it _does_ sound rather like it, Professor. [_Four negro musicians enter, playing a tom-tom, mandoline, flageolet, and native fiddle respectively, while they chant a weird ditty, and sit cross-legged, right and left of the central arch._ SYLVIA. [_As the music stops._] Horace, this is really _too_ bad of you! You _assured_ me there was nothing more coming! [_She turns her shoulder on him with marked displeasure._ PRINGLE. So you keep a private band, do you, Ventimore? HORACE. No, no,--of course I don't. It--it's only engaged for the evening. PRINGLE. I see. Hired from the Arab encampment at Earl's Court, eh? HORACE. [_Irritated._] You've guessed it first time, Pringle! PRINGLE. That's odd. Because, now I come to think of it, there _isn't_ any Arab encampment there this season. HORACE. Then they come from somewhere else. At all events, they're playing here for nothing. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Ah! They know their own value! MRS. FUTVOYE. Now, Anthony, you're finding fault before they've even _begun_! [_She rises._] That was only _tuning_, of course! [_She passes in front of the MUSICIANS, and then comes down to HORACE._] Can they play _English_ music? _Do_ ask them if they know "The Choristers." HORACE.