[_Soothingly, to PRINGLE._] There, there--you mustn't get excited about it. [_He turns, and takes MR. WACKERBATH aside._] It's not what _you_ think. Poor fellow! _His_ only excess is overwork. [_Turning to PRINGLE again._] Now, now, Pringle, my dear fellow, you're not--not quite yourself, you know--not quite _yourself_! Take my advice and go quietly home, and ask your doctor to come and have a look at you. PRINGLE. [_Staggered._] So--so you're trying to make out now that--that I'm _mad_, are you? PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. Mad? No, no--only a little out of sorts. You've been working rather too hard, you know, that's all! All you want is a thorough rest. MR. WACKERBATH. Yes, yes. A sea-voyage, now. Trip round the world. Set you up in no time! MRS. FUTVOYE. [_Approaching PRINGLE._] _Do_ go round the world, Mr. Pringle. You'll come back cured of all these fancies! PRINGLE. [_Reeling back a step or two._] Fancies!... Ventimore! [_HORACE goes to him, while the others form a group on the left and discuss PRINGLE'S case with pitying concern._] I've been a fool--I see that now. They're not pretending--they really _have_ forgotten! HORACE. Completely. Fakrash hasn't foozled _that_--for a wonder! I ought to have included _you_; but--well, one can't think of _everything_--I forgot. I can only say I'm sorry. PRINGLE. But they all think I'm mad! [_He sinks on the sofa by fireplace._] _You_ know I'm not _that_! [_With sudden doubt._] _Am_ I? HORACE. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] Not a bit, my dear fellow,--you're as sane as I am. PRINGLE. [_With relief._] I _knew_ I was! But _tell_ 'em so--tell 'em it's all true! HORACE. I can't. They'd only think _I_ was mad, too. PRINGLE. [_In despair._] But you _must_ get me out of this somehow,--or I shall be ruined! Who'd employ a mad architect? HORACE. [_Reflecting._] I'll get you out of it, if I can. But I shall have to stretch the truth a bit,--so mind you back up everything I say. PRINGLE. I will--I will! I'll say anything, do anything! HORACE. Then here goes! [_He turns to the others, and comes towards centre._] Oh, er--Mrs. Wackerbath--[_the others break off their conversation and listen to him_]--I've found out what's the matter with Mr. Pringle,--and I know you'll all be glad to hear that it's nothing serious. [_Murmur of sympathetic relief from the others._] It seems he's been spending the afternoon with his dentist, and--[_turning to PRINGLE_]--was it two or _three_ back teeth you had out, Pringle? PRINGLE. [_Sullenly._] One. Only _one_. HORACE. [_To the others._] Only _one_. But under an anæsthetic. [_To PRINGLE, as before._] Nitrous oxide, Pringle, or ether? PRINGLE. I can't say--I didn't inquire. HORACE. [_To the others._] Naturally--he _wouldn't_ inquire. But--well, _you_ know what ef--I mean, anæsthetics _are_! ALL (EXCEPT PRINGLE). To be sure! Yes, yes. Of course! HORACE.