Part 13 (1/2)

”Oh, well, you see,” explained Horace, ”it--it wasn't exactly done by me.”

”Whoever did it,” said the Professor, ”must have devoted considerable study to Eastern art and architecture. May I ask the name of the firm who executed the alterations?”

”I really couldn't tell you, sir,” answered Horace, who was beginning to understand how very bad a _mauvais quart d'heure_ can be.

”You can't tell me!” exclaimed the Professor. ”You order these extensive, and _I_ should say expensive, decorations, and you don't know the firm you selected to carry them out!”

”Of course I _know_,” said Horace, ”only I don't happen to remember at this moment. Let me see, now. Was it Liberty? No, I'm almost certain it wasn't Liberty. It might have been Maple, but I'm not sure. Whoever did do it, they were marvellously cheap.”

”I am glad to hear it,” said the Professor, in his most unpleasant tone.

”Where is your dining-room?”

”Why, I rather think,” said Horace, helplessly, as he saw a train of attendants laying a round cloth on the floor, ”I rather think _this_ is the dining-room.”

”You appear to be in some doubt?” said the Professor.

”I leave it to them--it depends where they choose to lay the cloth,”

said Horace. ”Sometimes in one place; sometimes in another. There's a great charm in uncertainty,” he faltered.

”Doubtless,” said the Professor.

By this time two of the slaves, under the direction of a tall and turbaned black, had set a low ebony stool, inlaid with silver and tortoisesh.e.l.l in strange devices, on the round carpet, when other attendants followed with a circular silver tray containing covered dishes, which they placed on the stool and salaamed.

”Your--ah--groom of the chambers,” said the Professor, ”seems to have decided that we should dine here. I observe they are making signs to you that the food is on the table.”

”So it is,” said Ventimore. ”Shall we sit down?”

”But, my dear Horace,” said Mrs. Futvoye, ”your butler has forgotten the chairs.”

”You don't appear to realise, my dear,” said the Professor, ”that in such an interior as this chairs would be hopelessly incongruous.”

”I'm afraid there aren't any,” said Horace, for there was nothing but four fat cus.h.i.+ons. ”Let's sit down on these,” he proposed. ”It--it's more fun!”

”At my time of life,” said the Professor, irritably, as he let himself down on the plumpest cus.h.i.+on, ”such fun as may be derived from eating one's meals on the floor fails to appeal to my sense of humour. However, I admit that it is thoroughly Oriental.”

”_I_ think it's delightful,” said Sylvia; ”ever so much nicer than a stiff, conventional dinner-party.”

”One may be unconventional,” remarked her father, ”without escaping the penalty of stiffness. Go away, sir! go away!” he added snappishly, to one of the slaves, who was attempting to pour water over his hands.

”Your servant, Ventimore, appears to imagine that I go out to dinner without taking the trouble to wash my hands previously. This, I may mention, is _not_ the case.”

”It's only an Eastern ceremony, Professor,” said Horace.

”I am perfectly well aware of what is customary in the East,” retorted the Professor; ”it does not follow that such--ah--hygienic precautions are either necessary or desirable at a Western table.”

Horace made no reply; he was too much occupied in gazing blankly at the silver dish-covers and wondering what in the world might be underneath; nor was his perplexity relieved when the covers were removed, for he was quite at a loss to guess how he was supposed to help the contents without so much as a fork.

The chief attendant, however, solved that difficulty by intimating in pantomime that the guests were expected to use their fingers.

Sylvia accomplished this daintily and with intense amus.e.m.e.nt, but her father and mother made no secret of their repugnance. ”If I were dining in the desert with a Sheik, sir,” observed the Professor, ”I should, I hope, know how to conform to his habits and prejudices. Here, in the heart of London, I confess all this strikes me as a piece of needless pedantry.”

”I'm very sorry,” said Horace; ”I'd have some knives and forks if I could--but I'm afraid these fellows don't even understand what they are, so it's useless to order any. We--we must rough it a little, that's all.