"She ain't intending to do neither; she've left the house already."

"You must fetch her back," cried Horace. "Good heavens, man, _can't_ you
see what a fix you're leaving me in? My friends have started long
ago--it's too late to wire to them, or make any other arrangements."

There was a knock, as he spoke, at the front door; and odd enough was
the familiar sound of the cast-iron knocker in that Arabian hall.

"There they are!" he said, and the idea of meeting them at the door and
proposing an instant adjournment to a restaurant occurred to him--till
he suddenly recollected that he would have to change and try to find
some money, even for that. "For the last time, Rapkin," he cried in
despair, "do you mean to tell me there's no dinner ready?"

"Oh," said Rapkin, "there's dinner right enough, and a lot o' barbarious
furriners downstairs a cookin' of it--that's what broke Maria's 'art--to
see it all took out of her 'ands, after the trouble she'd gone to."

"But I must have somebody to wait," exclaimed Horace.

"You've got waiters enough, as far as that goes. But if you expect a
hordinary Christian man to wait along of a lot o' narsty niggers, and be
at their beck and call, you're mistook, sir, for I'm going to sleep the
night at my brother-in-law's and take his advice, he bein' a doorkeeper
at a solicitor's orfice and knowing the law, about this 'ere business,
and so I wish you a good hevening, and 'oping your dinner will be to
your liking and satisfaction."

He went out by the farther archway, while from the entrance-hall Horace
could hear voices he knew only too well. The Futvoyes had come; well, at
all events, it seemed that there would be something for them to eat,
since Fakrash, in his anxiety to do the thing thoroughly, had furnished
both the feast and attendance himself--but who was there to announce the
guests? Where were these waiters Rapkin had spoken of? Ought he to go
and bring in his visitors himself?

These questions answered themselves the next instant, for, as he stood
there under the dome, the curtains of the central arch were drawn with a
rattle, and disclosed a double line of tall slaves in rich raiment,
their onyx eyes rolling and their teeth flashing in their chocolate-hued
countenances, as they salaamed.

Between this double line stood Professor and Mrs. Futvoye and Sylvia,
who had just removed their wraps and were gazing in undisguised
astonishment on the splendours which met their view.