HORACE. [_Sinking into chair by sofa._] Heaven forgive me! I did. SYLVIA. [_Recoiling from him with aversion._] To transform him into a mule? [_She goes to a chair below fireplace, and seats herself in despair._ HORACE. [_Rising and going towards her._] No, no! I wanted old Fakrash to convince him that he really _had_ been in the bottle--but not like _this_! I thought I could trust him to do _that_! [_Bitterly._] But I might have known! PRINGLE. So you still stick to that story about the Jinnee? HORACE. Surely even _you_ must believe it now? PRINGLE. I--I admit that it doesn't seem so incredible as it did. But, if true, there's all the less excuse for you. Because you can make this Jinnee, or whatever he is, do anything you tell him. You can't deny that--I've seen you _do_ it, you know! SYLVIA. Ah! HORACE. I can manage him right enough when he's _there_--it's when I haven't got my eye on him that he makes all these mistakes. SYLVIA. But _why_ should he change poor father into a one-eyed mule? It's so utterly unreasonable! HORACE. I'm afraid the Professor alarmed him by threatening to send for a constable. However, darling--and this is what I'm here to tell you--it won't last long. _I'll_ take care that your father will soon be restored. SYLVIA. [_Rising, overjoyed._] You _will_? Oh, I _must_ tell them! [_Rushing to the sliding-doors and slightly opening them._] Mother, mother! I've news--_good_ news! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Looking cautiously through the opening._] What is it, Sylvia? [_Sees HORACE with displeasure._] Mr. Ventimore! _You_ here! [_Stamping heard from study. MRS. FUTVOYE turns and speaks over her shoulder._] Keep back, Anthony! Keep back! Remember--you're not fit to be seen, as you _are_! SYLVIA. [_Happily._] It doesn't matter, mother. They _both_ know. And Horace is going to make father all right again. MRS. FUTVOYE. Oh, in _that_ case---- [_She pushes the sofa aside and comes through, leaving the sliding-doors open, and pulling the curtains back, but replacing the sofa._ HORACE. Mrs. Futvoye, I've something to say which I think will cheer the Professor up a bit. MRS. FUTVOYE. Unless you can say how and when my husband may expect to see an end of all this---- HORACE. I shall make old Fakrash see to that. MRS. FUTVOYE. Make old Fakrash see to it? HORACE. The Jinnee I let out of that brass bottle. I told you all about him last night. You didn't believe me _then_. PRINGLE. None of us did. But I'm afraid, Mrs. Futvoye, we've got to believe now. MRS. FUTVOYE. [_To HORACE._] Then--are _you_ responsible for this? HORACE. Indirectly. Only indirectly. I couldn't prevent Fakrash making an ass of himself. MRS. FUTVOYE. You might have prevented his making a mule of my husband!