She drew the Aberdeen lean-to, which ran easily on Edinburgh castors, a little nearer to him, and continued. “At least I felt obliged to seek an outlet. I could not stifle my real self for ever, and yet I could not be comfortably silly with those who were absolutely convinced of my permanent good sense. I tried to be several times. “Didn’t you succeed?” “Not once.” “Tch! Tch!” “So at last I was driven to the double life.” “Then your coachman knows?” “MacSpillan! No! I took a cab--a four-wheeler--at the corner of the Square, and the name of Minerva Partridge. It’s a silly name, isn’t it?” She asked the question with earnest anxiety. “Quite idiotic,” said the Prophet, reassuringly. “I felt quite sure it was,” she cried, obviously comforted. “Because it came to me so inevitably. I was so perfectly natural--and alone--when I invented it. No one helped me.” “I assure you,” reiterated the Prophet, “there is no doubt the name is absolutely and entirely idiotic.” “Thank you, dear Mr. Vivian! What a pleasure it is to talk to you! Under this name I have, for a year and a half, led an idiotic life, such a life as really suits me, such a life as is in complete accord with my true nature. Oh, the joy of it! The sense of freedom! If only all other silly girls who look sensible like me had the courage to do what I have done!” “It is a pity!” said the Prophet, in assent, beginning to be genuinely moved by the obvious sincerity of this human being’s bent towards folly. “But what have you done during this year and a half of truth and freedom?” “More foolish things than many crowd into a lifetime,” she cried ecstatically. “It would take me days to tell you of half of them!” “Oh, then you mustn’t,” said the Prophet, glancing furtively at the clock. “Had you come out to be silly yesterday afternoon?” “Yes, I had--to be sillier even than usual. And if it hadn’t been for Sir Tiglath catching sight of me in the avenue, and then--Mr. Sagittarius and you being in the parlour--” She stopped. “By the way,” she said, in her usual tone of breezy common sense, “were you living a double life in the parlour?” “I!” said the Prophet. “Oh, no, not at all. I never do anything of that kind.” “Sure?” “Quite certain.” “You’re not going to?” “Certainly not. Nothing would induce me.” She looked at him, as if unconvinced, raising her dark, sensible eyebrows. “All Jellybrand’s clients do,” she said. “And I’m certain Mr. Sagittarius--” “I assure you,” said the Prophet, with the heavy earnestness of absolute insincerity, “Mr. Sagittarius is the most single lived man I ever met, the very most. But why did Sir Tiglath, that is, why did you--?” “Try to avoid him? Well--” For the first time she hesitated, and began to look slightly confused. “Well,” she repeated, “Sir Tiglath is a very strange, peculiar old man.” The Prophet thought that if the young librarian had been present he would have eliminated the second adjective.