“And now, sir,” said Malkiel the Second, pointing to a couple of cane chairs which, with the table, endeavoured, rather unsuccessfully, to furnish forth the parlour at Jellybrand’s, “now sir, what do you want with me?” As he spoke he threw his black overcoat wide open, seated himself on the edge of one of the chairs in a dignified attitude, and crossed his feet--which were not innocent of spats--one over the other. The Prophet was resolved to dare all, and he, therefore, answered boldly,-- “Malkiel the Second, I wish to speak to you as one prophet to another.” At this remark Malkiel started violently, and darted a searching glance from beneath his blonde eyebrows at Hennessey. “Do you live in the Berkeley Square, sir,” he said, “and claim to be a prophet?” “I do,” said Hennessey, with modest determination. Malkiel smiled, a long and wreathed smile that was full of luscious melancholy and tragic sweetness. “The assumption seems rather ridiculous--forgive me,” he exclaimed. “The Berkeley Square! Whatever would Madame say?” “Madame?” said the Prophet, inquiringly. “Madame Malkiel, or Madame Sagittarius, as she always passes.” “Your wife?” “My honoured lady,” said Malkiel, with pride. “More to me almost than any lunar guide or starry monitor. What, oh, what would she say to a prophet from the Berkeley Square?” He burst into hollow laughter, shaking upon the cane chair till its very foundations seemed threatened as by an earthquake, and was obliged to apply the flight of storks to his eyes before he could in any degree recover his equanimity. At length he glanced up with tears rolling down his cheeks. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “But what can you know of prophecy in such a fashionable neighbourhood, close to Grosvenor Square and within sight, as one may say, of Piccadilly? Oh, dear, oh, dear!” “But really,” said the Prophet, who had flushed red, but who still spoke with pleasant mildness, “what influence can neighbourhood have upon such a superterrestrial matter?” “Did Isaiah reside in the Berkeley Square, sir?” “I fancy not. Still--” “I fancy not, too,” rejoined Malkiel. “Nor Bernard Wilkins either, or any prophet that ever I heard of. Why, even Jesse Jones lives off Perkin’s Road, Wandsworth Common, though he does keep a sitting-room in Berners Street just to see his clients in, and he is a very low-class person, even for a prophet. No, no, sir, Madame is quite right. She married me despite the damning--yes, I say, sir, the damning fact that I was a prophet--” here Malkiel the Second brought down one of the dogskin gloves with violence upon the rickety parlour table--“but before ever we went to the Registrar’s she made me take a solemn oath. What was it, do you say?” “Yes, I do,” said Hennessey, leaning forward and gazing into Malkiel’s long and excited face round which the heavy mat of pomaded hair vibrated.