N--not _unwell_ exactly. But--not _quite_ his usual self. [_More noise from study, and SYLVIA'S voice heard exclaiming:_ "Papa! Papa!" PRINGLE. [_Looking round._] He seems to be in his study,--and I thought I heard Miss Sylvia's voice. MRS. FUTVOYE. Yes--yes--he--he's particularly busy this morning. [_Increased noise._ PRINGLE. [_Puzzled._] So it appears. But--[_rising_]--I wouldn't interrupt him for long, and it really is _most_ important. MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Rising in agitation._] I do assure you he can see _nobody_ at present. [_She seats herself, persuading him to sit down also._ PRINGLE. But, Mrs. Futvoye,--if you knew what I have discovered----! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Rising again._] Discovered! PRINGLE. About Ventimore. I want to put the Professor on his guard against receiving any--er--emissary from him. MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Slightly relieved._] Oh, he's not likely to do _that_--he has _much_ more important matters to think about! [_The noise is renewed; stamping, plunging, overturned chairs._ PRINGLE. Just so. Then--if I might speak to Miss Sylvia? MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Hastily._] _She_ is very busy too, helping my husband. [_Here the noise reaches its finale in a resounding crash and clatter of falling furniture and shivered glass; MRS. FUTVOYE proceeds without appearing to have noticed it._] He--he sometimes makes use of her as--as his amanuensis. [_The sliding-doors are suddenly run back, and SYLVIA appears. She does not see PRINGLE, who has risen and moved to the right, from which position he can see into the study. MRS. FUTVOYE makes a movement towards her to check any disclosures._ SYLVIA. [_In despair._] Oh, Mother! Mother! You _must_ come to father! He's kicking worse than ever, and I can't manage him any longer! PRINGLE. [_To himself, recoiling, after a glance through the sliding-doors, off._] My _hat_! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Warningly, as SYLVIA carefully closes sliding-doors, pushes the sofa aside, and comes down._] Sylvia! Don't you see Mr. Pringle? SYLVIA. [_Turning and starting._] Oh! What _have_ I said? MRS. FUTVOYE. Nothing, my dear. [_Turning to PRINGLE._] I must ask you to excuse me, Mr. Pringle. My husband is a little irritable this morning. [_Going up to sliding-doors._] A sharp attack of--of gout. In both legs, you know! [_She slips in behind the long sofa, pushes back doors, draws the curtains behind them._] Anthony, you must _not_ excite yourself like this.