[_Grimly._] Have no uneasiness--for thou shalt receive justice. [_HORACE retires to sofa on right, expecting to be rehabilitated._] Hear, O company, my words! I repent of my conduct in obeying the orders of yonder wretch--[_pointing to HORACE, who gasps in stupefaction_]--who is seeking even now to deter me from showing kindness. HORACE. Liar! _Liar!_ FAKRASH. Being desirous of escaping marriage with this damsel--[_with a step towards SYLVIA_]--he commanded me to transform her father as ye see. And I, whom he had delivered from a bottle of brass, was compelled by gratitude to fulfil all his desires. HORACE. [_Going up to FAKRASH furiously._] You infernal old scoundrel! [_FAKRASH smiles malignantly and stalks off to the right; HORACE crosses to SYLVIA._] _You_ don't believe him, Sylvia? You _can't_! SYLVIA. Don't speak to me! Don't come near me! [_MRS. FUTVOYE and PRINGLE express disgust and indignation._ HORACE. You're devilish _hard_ on me, all of you. [_He staggers to the sofa in front of sliding-doors and falls back, hitting his head against THE MULE'S nose; THE MULE makes a grab at him; he rises in confusion._] I--I beg your pardon, sir! [_He retreats to the left of the sofa._ SYLVIA. [_Down on left, to FAKRASH._] But you won't obey him any longer, _will_ you? You _are_ going to restore poor father? FAKRASH. [_On the right._] Let him first swear that he and all his household will preserve secrecy concerning this affair. THE MULE. [_Angrily._] Damn it, sir, we're not likely to _chatter_ about it! PRINGLE. [_Approaching FAKRASH, reassuringly._] It will never be allowed to go beyond the family. FAKRASH. [_To PRINGLE._] O eloquent and comely-faced one, I accept thy undertaking, for thou art indeed a worthy and honourable person. [_As PRINGLE, highly flattered, returns to THE MULE, FAKRASH beckons MRS. FUTVOYE._] In order that I may restore thy husband, bring me hither a cup of fair water. MRS. FUTVOYE. There's some in the dining-room. [_Going towards door to hall._] At least, it's _filtered_, if _that_ will do! THE MULE. Don't ask foolish questions, Sophia--do as you're _told_! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_With dignity._] I think you forget yourself, Anthony! [_PRINGLE opens the door for her, and she goes out._ SYLVIA. [_Going to PRINGLE, and taking his hand._] Dear, _dear_ Mr. Pringle! Where _should_ we be without _you_? PRINGLE. [_Modestly._] Don't _mention_ it, Miss Sylvia! That is--no trouble, I assure you! [_They come down together to the left, talking in dumb show._ HORACE. [_Going to FAKRASH on the right._] You--you pig-headed old muddler--[_pointing to SYLVIA and PRINGLE_]--look at _that_! You've done for me _this_ time. FAKRASH. [_Darkly._] Nay--not yet.