“Even in the days of the great Juvenile,” proceeded Madame, “to whose satires I owe much”--here she laid a loving hand upon Vol. 2 of the “Library of Famous Literature.”--“Long ere the days when Lord Lytton and his Caxtons introduced us to the blessings of the printing press there were doubtless ladies who, like myself, could forget the treachery and the lies of men in silent communion with the brains of the departed. Far better to be Milton’s ‘Il Penserosero’ than Lord Byron’s ‘L’Allegra!’” To this pronounciamento, which was interrupted several times by more alarming contortions of the brain-worker’s face, the Prophet replied with a vague affirmative, while Mr. Sagittarius whispered,-- “Her whole knowledge, sir, comes straight from there”--pointing towards the dwarf bookcase. “She brought it on the instalment system. Dr. Carter has made her what she is! That man, sir, deserves to be canonised. Eight guineas and a half, sir, and such a result!” “Such a result!” the Prophet whispered back. By this time Madame Sagittarius had apparently ceased to commune with the dead, for her striking face assumed a more normal expression of feminine bitterness as she realised who was before her, and she exclaimed sharply,-- “Oh, so you’ve come at last, Mr. Vivian! And pray what have you to say? What about the rashes? And what is this danger that threatens Mr. Sagittarius?” “We’d better take the danger first, my dear,” said Mr. Sagittarius, with grave anxiety. “Very well. Not that it should be the most important to one who wears the _toga virilibus_!” “True, my love. Still, to take it first will clear the ground, I think, and set me more at ease. Well, sir?” Thus adjured, the Prophet resolved to make a clean breast of Sir Tiglath’s declarations, and he therefore replied,-- “I thought it only right to wire to you as I did, having learnt that there is in London a gentleman, an eminent man, who has for five-and-forty years been seeking for Malkiel with the avowed intention of--of--” “Oh what, sir, of what?” said Mr. Sagittarius with trembling lips. “Of doing him violence,” replied the Prophet, impressively. “What is the gent’s name?” said Mr. Sagittarius, in great agitation. “His name! _Nomen volens_!” added Madame. “That,” said the Prophet, “I prefer not to say at present.” “But why should he desire to--?” “Because you are a prophet.” “There, Jupiter!” cried Madame, with flushed spitefulness. “What have I always said! All prophets are what they call outsiders--_hors d’oeuvres_, neither more nor less.” “I know, my love, I know. But how should this gent recognise me for a prophet? I’m sure my dress, my manner, are those of an outside broker, as I have often told you, Sophy. How--” “The gentleman has not yet recognised you,” said the Prophet. “At the moment he believes you to be an American syndicate.” “Thank mercy!” ejaculated Mr. Sagittarius. “But one can never tell,” added the Prophet. “He might find out.”