"Sylvia," said Horace, still lingering, "before I go, tell me that, whatever I may have to do, you will understand that--that it will be for your sake!"

"Please don't talk like that," she said. "We may never see one another again. Don't let my last recollection of you be of--of a hypocrite, Horace!"

"A hypocrite!" he cried. "Sylvia, this is too much! What have I said or done to make you think me that?"

"Oh, I am not so simple as you suppose, Horace," she replied. "I see now why all this has happened: why poor dad was tormented; why you insisted on my setting you free. But I would have released you without _that_!

Indeed, all this elaborate artifice wasn't in the least necessary!"

"You believe I was an accomplice in that old fool's plot?" he said. "You believe me such a cur as that?"

"I don't blame you," she said. "I don't believe you could help yourself.

He can make you do whatever he chooses. And then, you are so rich now, it is natural that you should want to marry some one--some one more suited to you--like this lovely Princess of yours."

"Of mine!" groaned the exasperated Horace. "When I tell you I've never even seen her! As if any Princess in the world would marry me to please a Jinnee out of a bra.s.s bottle! And if she did, Sylvia, you can't believe that any Princess would make me forget you!"

"It depends so very much on the Princess," was all Sylvia could be induced to say.

"Well," said Horace, "if that's all the faith you have in me, I suppose it's useless to say any more. Good-bye, Mrs. Futvoye; good-bye, Professor. I wish I could tell you how deeply I regret all the trouble I have brought on you by my own folly. All I can say is, that I will bear anything in future rather than expose you or any of you to the smallest risk."

"I trust, indeed," said the Professor, stiffly, "that you will use all the influence at your command to secure me from any repet.i.tion of an experience that might well have unmanned a less equable temperament than my own."

"Good-bye, Horace," said Mrs. Futvoye, more kindly. "I believe you are more to be pitied than blamed, whatever others may think. And _I_ don't forget--if Anthony does--that, but for you, he might, instead of sitting there comfortably in his armchair, be lashing out with his hind legs and kicking everything to pieces at this very moment!"

"I deny that I lashed out!" said the Professor. "My--a--hind quarters may have been under imperfect control--but I never lost my reasoning powers or my good humour for a single instant. I can say that truthfully."

If the Professor could say that truthfully amidst the general wreck in which he sat, like another Marius, he had little to learn in the gentle art of self-deception; but there was nothing to gain by contradicting him then.

"Good-bye, Sylvia," said Horace, and held out his hand.

"Good-bye," she said, without offering to take it or look at him--and, after a miserable pause, he left the study. But before he had reached the front door he heard a swish and swirl of drapery behind him, and felt her light hand on his arm. "Ah, no!" she said, clinging to him, "I can't let you go like this. I didn't mean all the things I said just now. I _do_ believe in you, Horace--at least, I'll try hard to.... And I shall always, _always_ love you, Horace.... I shan't care--very much--even if you do forget me, so long as you are happy.... Only don't be _too_ happy. Think of me sometimes!"

"I shall _not_ be too happy," he said, as he held her close to his heart and kissed her pathetically drawn mouth and flushed cheeks. "And I shall think of you always."

"And you won't fall in love with your Princess?" entreated Sylvia, at the end of her altruism. "Promise!"

"If I am ever provided with one," he replied, "I shall loathe her--for not being you. But don't let us lose heart, darling. There must be some way of talking that old idiot out of this nonsense and bringing him round to common sense. I'm not going to give in just yet!"

These were brave words--but, as they both felt, the situation had little enough to warrant them, and, after one last long embrace, they parted, and he was no sooner on the steps than he felt himself caught up as before and borne through the air with breathless speed, till he was set down, he could not have well said how, in a chair in his own sitting-room at Vincent Square.

"Well," he said, looking at the Jinnee, who was standing opposite with a smile of intolerable complacency, "I suppose you feel satisfied with yourself over this business?"

"It hath indeed been brought to a favourable conclusion," said Fakrash.

"Well hath the poet written----"

"I don't think I can stand any more 'Elegant Extracts' this afternoon,"

interrupted Horace. "Let us come to business. You seem," he went on, with a strong effort to keep himself in hand, "to have formed some plan for marrying me to a King's daughter. May I ask you for full particulars?"

"No honour and advancement can be in excess of thy deserts," answered the Jinnee.

"Very kind of you to say so--but you are probably unaware that, as society is const.i.tuted at the present time, the objections to such an alliance would be quite insuperable."

"For me," said the Jinnee, "few obstacles are insuperable. But speak thy mind freely."

"I will," said Horace. "To begin with, no European Princess of the Blood Royal would entertain the idea for a moment. And if she did, she would forfeit her rank and cease to be a Princess, and I should probably be imprisoned in a fortress for _lese majeste_ or something."

"Dismiss thy fears, for I do not propose to unite thee to any Princess that is born of mortals. The bride I intend for thee is a Jinneeyeh; the peerless Bedeea-el-Jemal, daughter of my kinsman Shahyal, the Ruler of the Blue Jann."

"Oh, is she, though?" said Horace, blankly. "I'm exceedingly obliged, but, whatever may be the lady's attractions----"

"Her nose," recited the Jinnee, with enthusiasm, "is like unto the keen edge of a polished sword; her hair resembleth jewels, and her cheeks are ruddy as wine. She hath heavy lips, and when she looketh aside she putteth to shame the wild cows...."

"My good, excellent friend," said Horace, by no means impressed by this catalogue of charms, "one doesn't marry to mortify wild cows."

"When she walketh with a vacillating gait," continued Fakrash, as though he had not been interrupted, "the willow branch itself turneth green with envy."

"Personally," said Horace, "a waddle doesn't strike me as particularly fascinating--it's quite a matter of taste. Do you happen to have seen this enchantress lately?"

"My eyes have not been refreshed by her manifold beauties since I was enclosed by Suleyman--whose name be accursed--in the bra.s.s bottle of which thou knowest. Why dost thou ask?"

"Merely because it occurred to me that, after very nearly three thousand years, your charming kinswoman may--well, to put it as mildly as possible, not have altogether escaped the usual effects of Time. I mean, she must be getting on, you know!"

"O, silly-bearded one!" said the Jinnee, in half-scornful rebuke; "art thou, then, ignorant that we of the Jinn are not as mortals, that we should feel the ravages of age?"

"Forgive me if I'm personal," said Horace; "but surely your own hair and beard might be described as rather inclining to grey."

"Not from age," said Fakrash, "This cometh from long confinement."

"I see," said Horace. "Like the Prisoner of Chillon. Well, a.s.suming that the lady in question is still in the bloom of early youth, I see one fatal difficulty to becoming her suitor."

"Doubtless," said the Jinnee, "thou art referring to Jarjarees, the son of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees?"

"No, I wasn't," said Horace; "because, you see, I don't remember having ever heard of him. However, he's _another_ fatal difficulty. That makes two of them."

"Surely I have spoken of him to thee as my deadliest foe? It is true that he is a powerful and vindictive Efreet, who hath long persecuted the beauteous Bedeea with hateful attentions. Yet it may be possible, by good fortune, to overthrow him."

"Then I gather that any suitor for Bedeea's hand would be looked upon as a rival by the amiable Jarjarees?"

"Far is he from being of an amiable disposition," answered the Jinnee, simply, "and he would be so transported by rage and jealousy that he would certainly challenge thee to mortal combat."

"Then that settles it," said Horace. "I don't think any one can fairly call me a coward, but I do draw the line at fighting an Efreet for the hand of a lady I've never seen. How do I know he'll fight fair?"

"He would probably appear unto thee first in the form of a lion, and if he could not thus prevail against thee, transform himself into a serpent, and then into a buffalo or some other wild beast."

"And I should have to tackle the entire menagerie?" said Horace. "Why, my dear sir, I should never get beyond the lion!"

"I would a.s.sist thee to a.s.sume similar transformations," said the Jinnee, "and thus thou mayst be enabled to defeat him. For I burn with desire to behold mine enemy reduced to cinders."

"It's much more likely that you would have to sweep _me_ up!" said Horace, who had a strong conviction that anything in which the Jinnee was concerned would be bungled somehow. "And if you're so anxious to destroy this Jarjarees, why don't you challenge him to meet you in some quiet place in the desert and settle him yourself? It's much more in your line than it is in mine!"