[_Another plunge and crash of glass from behind._ HORACE. I wasn't consulted! But I will say _this_ for old Fakrash--nobody's readier to repair a blunder when once it's pointed out to him. He'll do anything for _me_. MRS. FUTVOYE. Then send for him and _insist_ on his repairing what he's done here. SYLVIA. [_Eagerly, down on right._] Yes, yes. Send for him, Horace, _send_ for him! HORACE. [_Heavily._] I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use. PRINGLE. Nonsense! You could make him come if you _chose_! HORACE. I tell you I can't. I don't even know where he is--or if he hasn't gone off to Arabia again---- MRS. FUTVOYE. Off to Arabia! [_Going towards him._] And when--_when_ is he likely to be _back_? HORACE. [_Suddenly._] Oh! [_He collapses into the chair above the fireplace._] I--I've only just remembered. He told me he was going to _settle down_ there! [_General consternation._ MRS. FUTVOYE. And is my husband to remain a mule for the rest of his life? [_Furious plunging heard from study._ HORACE. [_In a choked voice._] Don't ask me, Mrs. Futvoye--don't _ask_ me! _Pringle._ [_Coming towards HORACE._] I _thought_, Ventimore, you came to cheer the Professor up? SYLVIA. Horace, if you don't summon that odious Jinnee this instant, I shall _hate_ you! I'm _beginning_ to, as it is! HORACE. [_Rising and coming towards her._] My darling, I'd do any mortal thing I could--but I'm helpless! [_At this instant FAKRASH, in Oriental robe and turban, and a long green cloak, suddenly emerges from the cabinet between the sliding-doors and the door to the hall, and stands scowling and evidently trying to repress both rage and fear. HORACE sees him first._] No, I'm not! Hooray! we're saved! He's turned up, after all! [_The others retreat towards the fireplace in alarm._] Leave him to _me_. _I_ know how to manage him. [_He approaches FAKRASH._] So here you are! If you aren't ashamed of yourself, you jolly well _ought_ to be! A pretty mess you've landed us in this time! Just you get us _out_ of it again! FAKRASH. [_Waving him aside._] No greeting to thee! I have come upon my own affairs. HORACE. You'll attend to _mine_ first. Undo this infamous spell of yours--do you hear? FAKRASH. [_Sullenly._] I will grant nothing more at _thy_ request. HORACE. I don't think you quite understand. I don't _request_--I _command_. On the head and on the eye! FAKRASH. Thou art wasting breath. No longer am I under obligation to thee, O thou perfidious one! HORACE. [_Anxiously._] Why--what's _come_ to you? [_Coaxingly._] I say! Fakrash--old _chappie_. Don't play the goat _now_! You _can't_ mean to leave me on the mat like this! FAKRASH. [_Glaring at him._] Canst thou not perceive how hateful thou hast become to me? HORACE. I _do_ notice a coolness. But _why_? You were chummy enough not half an hour ago! FAKRASH.