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قراءة كتاب The Brass Bottle: A Farcical Fantastic Play in Four Acts
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The Brass Bottle: A Farcical Fantastic Play in Four Acts
altogether! I always thought him a conceited prig.
[Moving towards door at back.
Professor Futvoye.
You may come to think differently, my dear. [Pulling out his watch.] Nearly half-past six! Tut-tut! All this time wasted! It's useless to wait any longer for Ventimore. We may just as well go!
[He goes to get his hat and stick.
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Rising.] I knew how it would be!
Sylvia.
[At door.] Wait! [Opens door and listens.] There's Horace coming upstairs! I'm sure it's his step!
Professor Futvoye.
[Stops by table with relief.] At last! Now I shall know!
[Spencer Pringle enters. He is a smug, self-satisfied looking man of about thirty-five, smooth-shaven, except for small side-whiskers. He is in a light tweed suit, having just come up from the country.
Sylvia.
[Repressing her disappointment.] Mr. Pringle!
Pringle.
[In doorway.] Miss Sylvia! Mrs. Futvoye! [Shaking hands with the Professor.] Professor! Well! this is unexpected.
[Sylvia comes down to right.
Professor Futvoye.
[Graciously.] Glad to see you, Pringle! You are quite a stranger. Indeed, my daughter was remarking, only a little while ago, that you hadn't been near us for weeks!
Sylvia.
[In an indignant undertone.] Father!
[Mrs. Futvoye sits down again.
Pringle.
[To Sylvia, flattered.] Delighted to think I've been missed! But my apparent—er—neglect has been quite unavoidable.
Sylvia.
[Laughing.] So kind of you to relieve our minds, Mr. Pringle!
Pringle.
[Solemnly.] I assure you it's the fact. I've been away constantly for the last two months, superintending work I'm doing in various parts of the country. [With importance.] Hardly a moment to call my own!
[Sylvia turns with the intention of sitting down; he places a chair for her.
Professor Futvoye.
[Taking chair behind table.] A busy man like you, my dear Pringle, has no need to make excuses.
Pringle.
[Fetching a chair for himself.] I really have been fearfully overworked. Not that I complain of that! [As he sits down between the Professor and Sylvia.] I'd no idea we should meet here, though. Is Ventimore a friend of yours?
Professor Futvoye.
Oh, we know him, yes. As you do, it seems.
Pringle.
I sublet a room in my offices to him. Rather a good arrangement for him, because he gets experience by looking after any little matters that I've no time to attend to.
Sylvia.
[With suppressed resentment.] And isn't that rather a good arrangement for you?
Pringle.
It works fairly well—as a rule. But when I returned from the country this afternoon I found he hadn't been near the office all day!
[He rises, takes Sylvia's parasol officiously, and places it in a corner, then returns.
Professor Futvoye.
[To his wife, but speaking at Sylvia.] Not been near the office all day! I thought as much!
Sylvia.
The reason why he wasn't able to help you, Mr. Pringle, is because he's been at an auction, bidding for things on father's account.
Professor Futvoye.
I should have attended the sale myself but for an engagement to lecture at the Hieroglyphical on a recently inscribed cylinder.
Mrs. Futvoye.
And—you'll hardly believe it, Mr. Pringle,—but, the moment the lecture was over, he hurried us off here to find out what Mr. Ventimore had got for him! It's really too ridiculous! As if his study wasn't littered up quite enough already!
Professor Futvoye.
Women, my dear Pringle, can't understand the feelings of a collector. It's not every day, I can tell you, that a collection of such importance comes into the market.
Pringle.
I didn't know Ventimore was an expert in such things. I thought you could get brokers to bid for you.
Professor Futvoye.
Of course—of course. But I don't trust brokers—they know too much! And, as I gave Ventimore my own catalogue, with a tick against the lots I want and the limit I'm prepared to go, noted on the margin, he can't make any mistake.
Pringle.
I suppose not. That is, if he's accustomed to auctions.
Professor Futvoye.
What do you mean?
Pringle.
Only that if you aren't, there's always a liability to lose your head in the excitement, and go beyond the margin. But I daresay Ventimore wouldn't do that.
Professor Futvoye.
If he has! [He rises excitedly.] And he might—he might! With his recklessness about money, it's the very thing he would do! Letting me in for prices I can't afford! [Passionately.] No wonder he is in no hurry to show himself—no wonder!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Rising and attempting to pacify him.] Now, Anthony, there's nothing to work yourself up into a state for, at present. Do for goodness' sake wait till you hear all about it!
Professor Futvoye.
[Resentfully.] It seems I shall have to wait, Sophia—but I'm tired of waiting here. [He goes to get his hat and stick.] And evidently he doesn't intend to——
[Turns, as the door opens and Horace Ventimore comes in briskly. Horace is a pleasant-looking young man, with a cheery and rather boyish manner; he comes down and greets the Futvoyes without seeing Pringle for the moment; Sylvia has risen, delighted at his arrival.
Horace.
I say!