The Duchess replied that the Astrologer-Royal was a _facile princeps_ at uttering a prediction, and accordingly on the very next day she and the Princess, after disguising themselves, set forth on the summit of a tramway 'bus to the Observatory Temple of Greenwich, where, after first propitiating the prophet by offerings, they were ushered into a darkened inner chamber. Although they were strictly _pseudo_, he at once informed them of their genuine cognomens, and also told them much concerning their past of which they had hitherto been ignorant. And to the Princess he said, stroking the long and silvery hairs of his beard, "My daughter, I foresee many calamities which will inevitably befall thee shouldest thou marry before the day on which the bridegroom wins a certain contest called the Derby with a horse of his own." The gentle Petunia departed melancholy as a gib cat, since Mr Bhosh was not the happy possessor of so much as a single racing-horse of any description, and it was therefore not feasible that he should become entitled to wear the _cordon bleu_ of the turf in his buttonhole on his wedding day! With many sighs and tears she imparted her piece of news to the horror-stricken ears of our hero, who earnestly assured her that it was contrary to commonsense and _bonos mores_, to attach any importance to the mere _ipse dixit_ of so antiquated a charlatan as the Astrologer-Royal, who was utterly incapable--except at very long intervals--to bring about even such a simple affair as an eclipse which was visible from his own Observatory! [Illustration: 'MY DAUGHTER, I FORESEE MANY CALAMITIES WHICH WILL INEVITABLY BEFALL THEE' (Illustration VI)] However, the Princess, being a feminine, was naturally more prone to puerile credulities, and very solemnly declared that nothing would induce her to kneel by Mr Bhosh's side at the torch of Hymen until he should first have distinguished himself as a Derby winner. Whereat Mr Bhosh, perceiving that the date of his nuptial ceremony was become a _dies non_ in a Grecian calendar, did wring his hands in a bath of tears. Alas! he was totally unaware that it was his implacable enemy, the Duchess Dickinson, who had thus upset his apple-cart of felicity--but so it was, for by a clandestine bribe, she had corrupted the Astrologer-Royal--a poor, weak, very avaricious old chap--to trump out such a disastrous prediction. Some heroes in this hard plight would have thrown up the leek, but Mr Bhosh was stuffed with sterner materials. He swore a very long oath by all the gods that he had ceased to believe in, that sooner or later, by crook or hook, he would win the Derby race, though entirely destitute of horseflesh and very ill able to afford to purchase the most mediocre quadruped. Here some sporting readers will probably object! Why could he not enlist his unwieldy gifthorse among Derby candidates and so hoist the Duchess on the pinnacle of her own petard?