“Parties!” he said. “You and I are too old friends to waste our life in chattering about such London nonsense.” “Then we’ll talk of yesterday,” said Lady Enid, very firmly. The Prophet looked rather blank. “Yes,” she repeated. “Yesterday. I’ve guessed your secret.” “Which one?” he cried, much startled. “Which?” she said reproachfully. “Oh, Mr. Vivian--and I thought you trusted in me.” The Prophet was silent. The third daughter of the clergyman had often made that remark to him when they were nearly engaged. It recalled bygone memories. “That’s what I thought,” she added with pressure. “I’m sorry,” the Prophet murmured, rather obstinately. “I always think,” she continued, with deliberate expansiveness, “that nearly all the miseries of the world come about from people not trusting in--in people.” “Or from people trusting in the wrong people. Which is it?” said the Prophet, not without slyness. She began to look thin, but checked herself. “Tell me,” she said, “why did you stop me yesterday when I was beginning to say to Sir Tiglath that I was sure Malkiel was a man and not a syndicate?” “Did I stop you?” said the Prophet, artlessly. “Yes, with your eyes.” “Because--because I was sure--that is, certain you couldn’t be sure.” “How could you be certain?” “How?” “Yes.” “Well, how is one certain of anything?” said the Prophet, rather feebly. “How are you certain that I’m Miss Minerva Partridge?” “Because you told me so yourself, because I’ve seen you come into Jellybrand’s for your letters, because--” “Haven’t I seen Malkiel come into Jellybrand’s for his?” This unexpected retort threw the Prophet upon his beam ends. But he remembered his oath even in that very awkward position. “Does he go to Jellybrand’s?” he exclaimed, with a wild attempt after astonishment. “But he’s a company--Sir Tiglath said so.” “And what did your eyes say yesterday?” “I had a cold in my eyes yesterday,” said the Prophet. “They were very weak. They were--they were aching.” Lady Enid was silent for a moment. During that moment she was conferring with her feminine instinct. What it said to her must be guessed by the manner in which she once more entered into conversation with the Prophet. “Mr. Vivian,” she said, with a complete change of demeanour to girlish geniality and impulsiveness, “I’m going to confide in you. I’m going to thrown myself upon your mercy.” The Prophet blinked with amazement, like a martyr who suddenly finds himself snatched from the rack and laid upon a plush divan with a satin cushion under his head. “I’m going to trust you,” Lady Enid went on, emphasising the two pronouns. “Many thanks,” said the Prophet, unoriginally. She was sitting on a square piece of furniture which the Marquis of Glome called an “Aberdeen lean-to.” She now spread herself out upon it in the easy attitude of one who is about to converse intimately for some centuries, and proceeded.