[_MRS. FUTVOYE enters from the hall, carrying a glass goblet full of water._ MRS. FUTVOYE. [_To FAKRASH._] I've brought it in this, but if you _prefer_ a breakfast-cup---- THE MULE. [_Impatiently._] What the devil does it matter? Let him get _on_ with it! FAKRASH. [_As he meets MRS. FUTVOYE and takes the goblet from her._] This will serve. [_He goes up to THE MULE and sprinkles some drops of water on its head._] Quit this form and return unto the form in which thou wert! [_THE MULE fades into the PROFESSOR, who appears gasping and in an extremely bad temper; PRINGLE shifts the sofa to let him pass; FAKRASH retires to near the window._ SYLVIA. [_Rushing to the PROFESSOR._] Father! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Coming to his other side._] Now, Anthony, after all you have been through, you'd better sit down for a little. SYLVIA. [_As she and MRS. FUTVOYE bring him down to the chair left of sofa on right._] It _is_ lovely to have you back, father dear! PRINGLE. [_Joining them._] You're looking better _already_, sir! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Sinking into the chair by sofa._] Tut-tut! There, there--nothing to make all this fuss about! If one of you had only had the sense to try cold water, I should have come round _long_ before this! SYLVIA. But, father!--you forget that, but for Mr. Pringle---- PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. No, my dear, I do _not_. I owe much--very much--to Pringle's good offices--as I shall remember, my dear Pringle, as I shall _remember_. But I attribute my restoration in some measure to the fact that--from first to last--I was able to preserve perfect calm and self-control. PRINGLE. [_With an involuntary glance at the study, in which every article of furniture is smashed._] Quite _so_! And now I want you--all three--to celebrate your recovery by dining with me this evening at the Savoy. You promised you would last night, Professor. Not in the restaurant--I'll engage a private room. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. No, no--not to-night, my boy. I don't feel up to going out just yet. MRS. FUTVOYE. Nonsense, Anthony! You can dine out anywhere _now_, you know--and it will do you good. Thank you, Mr. Pringle, we shall be delighted. Sha'n't we, Sylvia? SYLVIA. I think I would rather stay at home this evening, mother. [_PRINGLE tries to persuade her in by-play._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Rising._] We'll come, Pringle, we'll come. [_To FAKRASH, who is still standing by the window._] Now then, sir, you've got all you came for--what are you waiting for? FAKRASH. To receive thy thanks. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. _What?_ For exposing me to all this humiliation! You'll get no thanks from _me_, sir--and the sooner you and your accomplice relieve this house of your presence the better!