ld live in such queer rooms
like those, and dine on cushions, with dreadful black slaves, and--and
dancing-girls and things. You pretended you were quite poor."

"So I am, darling. And as for my rooms, and--and the rest, they're all
gone, Sylvia. If you went to Vincent Square to-day, you wouldn't find a
trace of them!"

"That only shows!" said Sylvia. "But why should you play such a cruel,
and--and ungentlemanly trick on poor dad? If you had ever really loved
me----!"

"But I do, Sylvia, you can't really believe me capable of such an
outrage! Look at me and tell me so."

"No, Horace," said Sylvia frankly. "I don't believe _you_ did it. But I
believe you know who _did_. And you had better tell me at once!"

"If you're quite sure you can stand it," he replied, "I'll tell you
everything." And, as briefly as possible, he told her how he had
unsealed the brass bottle, and all that had come of it.

She bore it, on the whole, better than he had expected; perhaps, being a
woman, it was some consolation to her to remind him that she had
foretold something of this kind from the very first.

"But, of course, I never really thought it would be so awful as this!"
she said. "Horace, how _could_ you be so careless as to let a great
wicked thing like that escape out of its bottle?"

"I had a notion it was a manuscript," said Horace--"till he came out.
But he isn't a great wicked thing, Sylvia. He's an amiable old Jinnee
enough. And he'd do anything for me. Nobody could be more grateful and
generous than he has been."

"Do you call it generous to change the poor, dear dad into a mule?"
inquired Sylvia, with a little curl of her upper lip.

"That was an oversight," said Horace; "he meant no harm by it. In Arabia
they do these things--or used to in his day. Not that that's much excuse
for him. Still, he's not so young as he was, and besides, being bottled
up for all those centuries must have narrowed him rather. You must try
and make allowances for him, darling."

"I shan't," said Sylvia, "unless he apologises to poor father, and puts
him right at once."

"Why, of course, he'll do that," Horace answered confidently. "I'll see
that he does. I don't mean to stand any more of his nonsense. I'm afraid
I've been just a little too slack for fear of hurting his feelings; but
this time he's gone too far, and I shall talk to him like a Dutch uncle.
He's always ready to do the right thing when he's once shown where he
has gone wrong-