[_Benevolently._] May thy head long survive! HORACE. [_Choking with rage._] If you'd only turned up four minutes earlier I could have introduced you to my guests. It's too late _now_! FAKRASH. Thou hast dismissed them already? HORACE. They've gone, anyhow. FAKRASH. [_Beaming._] And were they not astounded by the magnificence of thy dwelling and the liberality of their entertainment? HORACE. Distinctly so. But I warn you--don't you press me on the subject of that entertainment. I can't trust myself to talk about it just yet. FAKRASH. Render me no thanks. HORACE. [_Exasperated._] Thanks! _Thanks!!_ FAKRASH. I perceive that something hath displeased thee. HORACE. [_With an angry laugh._] No, _do_ you? You're getting quite observant! Something jolly well _has_ displeased me. Not so much the banquet--I could pass that--we _did_ pass _most_ of it! [_Rising._] It was what came _after_ the banquet! FAKRASH. After the banquet I provided that a company of houris, lovelier than the full moon and graceful as young gazelles, should dance for the delight of thy guests. [_With uneasiness._] Can I have failed in bringing this to pass? HORACE. [_Bitterly._] Oh, you brought _that_ off all right--the houris _came_! [_With rising resentment._] And what do you think the Chief Gazelle _did_?... Hugged my knees and called me her lord and protector and the light of her eyes! Pretty good that--for a gazelle! FAKRASH. [_With a fatuous smile of approval._] Excellent indeed! HORACE. [_Turning on him._] Perhaps, when I tell you that the company included the young lady I was engaged to marry--_and_ her father and mother, and that they put the most unfavourable construction on the houri's behaviour, it _may_ begin to dawn, even on _you_, that you might have been more tactful! I've _lost_ Sylvia now--and all through you and your confounded gazelle! FAKRASH. [_Pulling his beard, and appearing slightly disconcerted._] Verily thy fortune is unlucky! But dismiss uneasiness, for to remedy this mischance will be the simplest thing possible. HORACE. [_More mildly._] Oh, if you'll do _that_! But how? FAKRASH. [_Standing in centre of hall._] By procuring thee another bride of far greater beauty and accomplishments. HORACE. [_Striding past him in a fury._] _Another!_ You--you _hopeless_ old ass! _Can't_ you understand? FAKRASH. [_Seizing his arm, and bringing him down the stage._] Wait! Thou hast not yet heard the list of her perfections. A forehead shall she have like the gleaming dome of a temple, eyes like unto blazing lamps, a nose that shineth brighter than a sword, teeth resembling pearls strung on native gold, a bosom---- HORACE. Stop, I tell you! I don't _want_ her--I won't _have_ her! I want Sylvia, and I'll marry nobody else! Just get _that_ into your muddled old head, will you! If you can't pull me out of this mess you've got me into, why the deuce have you come back at all? [_He sits on the divan on left._