“Has Mr. Malkiel sent any reply to my inquiry, Mr. Ferdinand?” asked the Prophet. “He has not, sir,” replied Mr. Ferdinand, sympathetically. “Did the boy messenger say he delivered my note?” “He said so, sir, on his Bible oath, sir.” “And do you believe him?” “Oh, sir!” responded Mr. Ferdinand, in a shocked voice, “surely a London lad would not be found to tell a lie!” “I hope not, Mr. Ferdinand. Still--did he look a nervous sort of lad?” “He was a trifle pale, sir, about the gills--but a heart of gold, sir, I feel sure. He wore four medals, sir.” “Four medals! Nevertheless, he may have been frightened to go to Mr. Malkiel’s door. That will do, Mr. Ferdinand.” Mr. Ferdinand was about to bow and retire when the Prophet, after a moment of hesitation, added,-- “Stay, Mr. Ferdinand. Mrs. Merillia has gone to the Gaiety Theatre to-night. I expect her back at half-past eleven. She may need assistance on her return.” “Assistance, sir! Mrs. Merillia, sir!” Mr. Ferdinand’s luminous eyes shone with amazement. “She may--I say she _may_--have to be carried to bed.” Mr. Ferdinand’s jaw dropped. He gave at the knees and was obliged to cling to a Chippendale cabinet for support. “Have an armchair ready in the hall in case of necessity and tell Gustavus to sit up. Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped. You understand. That will do, Mr. Ferdinand.” Mr. Ferdinand endeavoured to bow, and ultimately succeeded in retiring. When his tremulous shoulders were no longer visible, the Prophet opened Marcus Aurelius, and, seating himself in a corner of the big couch by the fire, crossed his legs one over the other and began to read that timid Ancient’s consolatory, but unconvincing, remarks. Occasionally he paused, however, murmured doubtfully, “Will she have to be carried to bed?” shook his head mournfully and then resumed his reading. While he thus employs his time, we must say a word or two about him.