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Very dusty! [Wipes his hand after touching the bottle.] And you gave a sovereign for this, Ventimore, eh? H'm! Dear me!
Sylvia
It may look better when it's had a good scrubbing.
Mrs. Futvoye
Scrubbing, my dear! It will have to be scraped first!
Horace
Yes – looks as if it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea, doesn't it? I've an idea it may be worth something. I should like to have your opinion, Professor.
[He smiles uneasily.
Professor Futvoye
[After a glance at it.] My opinion is that you might just as well have flung your sovereign into the gutter!
Horace
I admit it was speculative – but it may turn out a winner. It's rather odd it should be so tightly sealed up.
Professor Futvoye
[With more interest.] Sealed up, is it? [Coming down and looking at it more carefully.] H'm – the form is certainly antique. It's wonderful what they can do in Birmingham!
Horace
I really think it may have something inside it. It's not so very heavy, and yet – [tapping it] – it doesn't sound quite as if it were empty.
Professor Futvoye
It might contain something. I think it most unlikely – but still, it might.
Sylvia
[Laughing.] You don't mean it might be like that jar the Fisherman found in "The Arabian Nights," with a Genius inside it?
Professor Futvoye
I did not mean anything so frivolous, my dear. And, if you must quote "The Arabian Nights," it's as well to remember in future that the more correct term is not "Genius," but "Jinnee." Singular, Jinnee – plural, Jinn.
Sylvia
I'll remember, dear. Singular, Jinn – plural, Jinnies.
Professor Futvoye
[Instructively.] A name applied by Arab mythology to a race of aerial beings, created of the flame of fire, but capable of assuming human form and exercising supernatural powers.
Sylvia
Oh, do let's open it now and see what is inside!
Professor Futvoye
Don't be childish, Sylvia, don't be childish! We've no time now for idle curiosity. If we're to dress and be back here by eight o'clock, we ought to start at once. [Mrs. Futvoye prepares to go and moves towards door.] Good-bye, then, Ventimore, for the present. [He gets his hat and stick.] It is not to be an elaborate entertainment, I trust? A simple ordinary little dinner is all I require.
Horace
[As he opens the door for Mrs. Futvoye.] I've tried to remember your tastes, Professor.
Professor Futvoye
I hope you have succeeded. Good-bye, Pringle. Very glad to have run across you again. Let us see more of you in future.
Pringle
[Going to the door with him.] You shall, Professor, you shall. [Following Professor and Mrs. Futvoye out to landing.] By the way, are you likely to be in next – ?
[Horace closes door, leaving Sylvia still looking at the bottle.
Sylvia
[Turning as he comes down to her.] I'm certain there must be something inside that jar. And if it's anything really interesting, father will be so frightfully pleased that he won't be disagreeable all the evening!
Horace
[Ruefully.] Ah, I'm afraid that's too much to look forward to.
Sylvia
[Touching his arm with a little gesture of sympathy.] You poor dear! You're not beginning to be nervous about your dinner, are you?
Horace
N – no. Not nervous exactly. Something might go wrong. Still, I hope there won't be much your father can find fault with.
Sylvia
I'm sure there won't! And if he does, why, we won't mind, will we? We shall be together, you know!
Horace
[Putting his arm round her.] That's what I've been thinking of all day!
[He kisses her as Pringle returns, unseen by them. His jaw drops as he sees them together.
Pringle
Coming forward.] Er – [Horace and Sylvia separate.] Miss Sylvia – the Professor asked me to tell you —
Sylvia
I was just coming. [Taking her parasol and moving to door, which Pringle has left open.] Good-bye, Mr. Pringle. [Stopping Horace and Pringle as they are about to see her down the stairs.] No, you mustn't come down, either of you. [To Horace, with an affectation of distance.] Good-bye – Mr. Ventimore.
[She goes out.
Pringle
[By the table.] I should like to ask you, Ventimore, have you known Miss Futvoye long?
Horace
[Still at door, looking after Sylvia.] A little over six weeks.
Pringle
And I have known her for as many years!
Horace
[Closing door, and coming towards him.] Have you, though? I noticed the Professor was uncommonly cordial to you. Look here, are you doing anything this evening?
Pringle
Er – no. That is, nothing particular. Why?
Horace
Because it would be friendly of you if you'd come and dine here. They're coming, you know.
Pringle
I know. [After a moment's hesitation.] Thanks, I don't mind if I do.
Horace
Capital! I'm sure if any one can keep the old man in a good humour, you can.
Pringle
[Sourly.] I see. You want me to engage him in conversation and leave you free to carry on your flirtation with Miss Futvoye unobserved?
Horace
Not quite that. There's nothing underhand about it. We're engaged, you know.
Pringle
Engaged! [After a pause.] And how long have you been that?
Horace
Only since the day before yesterday.
Pringle
[Blankly.] Oh! [He walks down to window.] I congratulate you; er – heartily, of course. [Looking out of window.] And – and when do you think of being married?
Horace
It's no use thinking of that, at present. Not till the Professor takes a rosier view of my prospects, at all events. But if, like a good fellow, you could put in a word for me, it would give me no end of a leg up!
Pringle
[Dully, with his face still averted.] You don't seem to realise what you're asking!
Horace
[Suddenly understanding, with compunction.] My dear chap! [He puts both his hands on Pringle's shoulders.] What a selfish brute I've been not to see! I am sorry!
Pringle
[Stiffly.] As a matter of fact, I'd quite made up my mind to propose to her – as soon as I'd got those country jobs off my mind. And now I find you've cut in before me!
Horace
Well, it's straight of you to tell me. I suppose you'd rather come and dine some other evening? If so —
Pringle
No. A promise is a promise. I'll come. Mind you, I don't pretend it won't be an effort – but I'll see what I can do for you.
Horace
[Gratefully.] You are a good chap, Pringle! – one of the best! Though, really, after what you've told me, I hardly like —
Pringle
Not another word. Anything I can say on your behalf – without too wide a departure from strict accuracy – I'll say with pleasure. [Going up to door.] Eight o'clock's the hour, isn't it? All right. [He goes out.]
[Horace makes a movement towards the fireplace, as if to ring the bell. Then his eye is caught by the brass bottle, which is standing in the centre of the room. He stops, looks at his watch, and decides that he has time to open the bottle. He examines the cap on its neck, then goes to sideboard and takes from it a heavy paper-weight and a champagne-opener, returns to chair on right of table and sits, holding the bottle between his knees. Using the champagne-opener as a chisel, and the paper-weight as hammer, he proceeds to chip away the deposit round the cap, whistling an air from a musical comedy as he works.
Horace
[To himself.] I've loosened it. [He seizes the cap and tries to screw it off.] It's giving!
