“I do, my angel. Madame is a lady of deep education, ma’am,” said Mr. Sagittarius, turning to Mrs. Merillia, who had been listening to the foregoing cross-examination with perpetually-increasing horror. “No decent female should understand Greek or Latin,” roared Sir Tiglath at this point. “If she does she’s sure to read a great deal that she’s no business to know anything about.” At this challenge Madame’s bulging brow was overcast with a red cloud. “I beg to disagree, sir,” she exclaimed. “In my opinion the Georgics of Horatius, Homer’s Idyls and the satires of the great Juvenile--” “The great what?” bellowed Sir Tiglath. “The great Juvenile, sir.” “There never was a great juvenile, ma’am. Talent must be mellow before it is worth tasting, whatever the modern whipper-snapper may say. There never was, and there never will be, a great juvenile--there can only be a juvenile preparing to be great.” “Really, sir.” “I affirm it, madam. And as you seem so mighty fond of Latin, remember what Horace says--_Qui cupit opatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit_. Oh-h-h-h!” And Sir Tiglath flung himself back in his chair, puffing out his enormous cheeks and wagging his gigantic head at Madame who, for once in her life, seemed entirely at a loss, and unable to call to her assistance a single shred of learning from the library of Dr. Carter. Having at last emerged from his Epicurean silence, the astronomer now proceeded to take the floor. Satisfied that he had laid a presuming female low, he swung round, as if on a pivot, to where Mr. Sagittarius was sitting in the greatest agitation, and roared,-- “And now, sir what is all this about your being an outside broker? I was distinctly informed by this gentleman only a night or two ago that you were a distinguished astronomer.” “I am betrayed!” cried Mr. Sagittarius, dropping the knife and fork which he had just picked up for the dissection of a lobster croquette. “I said this was a trap. I said it was a rat-trap from the first.” “I knew he must be a ratcatcher,” whispered Lady Julia to the Prophet, who was about to rise from his seat and endeavour to calm his guest. “I was certain no one but a ratcatcher could talk in such a manner.” “He is not indeed! Mr. Sagittarius, pray sit down! You are alarming my grandmother.” “I can’t help that, sir. I am not going to sit here, sir, and be slain.” “Tsh! Tsh! I merely informed Sir Tiglath the other evening that what Miss Minerva had told him about you was true.” “Miss Minerva!” cried Madame, glancing at her husband in a most terrible manner. “Miss Minerva!” “Lady Enid Thistle, I mean,” cried the Prophet, mentally cursing the day when he was born. “Who’s that?” exclaimed Madame, beginning to look almost exactly like Medusa. “A young female who informed the old astronomer that your husband and an elderly female named Mrs. Bridgeman had for a long while been carrying on astronomical investigations together--”