PRINGLE. [_Stiffly._] I am happy to say, my dear fellow, that I require no introduction. We are old friends. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Impatiently._] To come to the point, Ventimore, as we are rather pressed for time--about the sale? How did you get on, eh? HORACE. Oh, ah--the sale. [_Producing catalogue from pocket._] Well, I did exactly as you told me. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Snatching catalogue from him._] Yes, yes. Let's go through it lot by lot. Lot 23, now. Did you get that? HORACE. No. Another fellow got _that_. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Annoyed._] Tssch! Well,--so long as you secured Lot 35. [_Reading from catalogue._] "Copper bowl, engraved round rim with verse from Hafiz," you know. Come, you didn't miss _that_? [_SYLVIA is listening anxiously._ HORACE. I did, though. It was snapped up by a sportsman in the very worst hat I ever saw in my life. He got it for sixteen guineas. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Disgusted._] What? A rare example of early Persian work like that going for only sixteen guineas! I'd willingly have paid double the money! HORACE. But your limit was seven pound ten, sir! And you warned me not to exceed it. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. You should have used your own judgment, sir! Well, well,--which of the lots I marked _did_ you get? HORACE. [_Going to SYLVIA, who is sympathetically distressed._] Couldn't get one of 'em. They all fetched record prices. _Professor Futvoye._ [_Violently._] Upon my soul!... Pringle, you were right! I ought to have employed a broker! [_To HORACE._] So you've come back with absolutely _nothing_? HORACE. Well, no. I did manage to get _one_ thing. SYLVIA. I _knew_ you would! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_To HORACE._] You did? But I understood you to say just now----! HORACE. This was a little flutter on my own account. I thought I'd stick the sale out, do you see; and near the end there was an extra lot put up--it wasn't in the catalogue. [_The PROFESSOR makes an exclamation of angry disgust._] Well, it was being passed round for us to look at--and nobody seemed to think much of it. But it struck me, somehow, it might be a dark horse, so I made a bid--and got it for only a sovereign! PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Pah! SYLVIA. But you haven't told us yet what it _is_. HORACE. Haven't I? Oh, well, it's a sort of metal jar. Brass, the auctioneer said it was. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Tchah! Some modern bazaar trash! HORACE. It doesn't _look_ modern. I left it downstairs to be cleaned. [_Going to door right of fireplace._] I'll go and bring it up. [_He goes out._ PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Furious._] I've no patience with the fellow! Squandering his sovereigns like this on worthless rubbish! MRS. FUTVOYE. Don't be so fractious, Anthony! For all you can tell, he may have picked up a treasure. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. [_Grimly._] He _may_, Sophia. On the other hand, he may _not_. Which, on the whole, is rather more probable.