The Prophet had grown very red, but he was seized by the desperation that occasionally attacks ignorance, and renders it, for a moment, determinedly explicit. “I ask you what does en mean? I am, I fear, a very ill-informed person, and I really don’t know.” “Think of an envelope, sir,” said Malkiel, with gentle commiseration. “Well, are you thinking?” The Prophet grew purple. “I am--but it is no use. Besides, why on earth should I think of an envelope? I beg you to explain.” “North, sir, the northern postal district of the metropolis. Fairly simple that--I think, sir.” “N.!” cried the illuminated Prophet. “I see. I was thinking of en all the time. I beg your pardon. Please go on. N.--of course!” Malkiel concealed a smile, just sufficiently to make its existence for an instant vitally prominent, and continued,-- “By the Mouse we resolved to build a detached residence such as would influence suitably the minds of the children--should we have any. For we had resolved, sir, by that time that with me the _Almanac_ should cease.” Here Malkiel leaned forward upon the deal table and lowered his voice to an impressive whisper. “Yes, sir, it had come to that. We all have our ambitions and that was mine.” “Good Heavens!” said the Prophet. “Malkiel’s _Almanac_ cease! But why? Such a very useful institution!” “Useful! More than that, sir, sublime! There’s nothing like it.” “Then why let it cease?” “Because the social status of the prophet, sir, is not agreeable to myself or Madame. I’ve had enough of it, sir, already, and I’m barely turned of fifty. Besides, my father would have wished it, I feel sure, had he lived in these days. Had he seen Sagittarius Lodge, the children, and how Madame comports herself, he would have recognised that the family was destined to rise into a higher sphere than that occupied by any prophet, however efficient. Besides, I will not deceive you, I have made money. In another ten years’ time, when I have laid by sufficient, I tell you straight, sir, that I shall go out of prophecy, right out of it.” “Then your Capricor--that is your son--will not carry on the--” “Capricornus a prophet, sir!” cried Malkiel. “Not if Madame and I know it. No, sir, Capricornus is to be an architect.” As Malkiel pronounced the last words he flung his black overcoat wide open with an ample gesture, thrust one hand into his breast, and assumed the fixed and far-seeing gaze of a man in a cabinet photograph. He seemed lost to his surroundings, and rapt by some great vision of enchanted architects, busy in drawing plans of the magic buildings of the future ages. The Prophet felt that it would be impious to disturb him. Malkiel’s reverie was long, and indeed the two prophets might well have been sitting in Jellybrand’s parlour now, had not a violent sneeze called for the pink assistance of the flight of storks, and brought the sneezer down to the level of ordinary humanity.