But at this moment the clock struck five, and the Prophet bounded up with hysterical activity, and hastily took his leave, promising to call again and hear more on the following day.

"And tell more," thought Lady Enid to herself as the door of the sensible-looking boudoir shut behind him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PROPHET RECEIVES HIS DIRECTIONS FROM MADAME

When the Prophet reached his door he rang the bell with a rather faltering hand. Mr. Ferdinand appeared.

"Any one called, Mr. Ferdinand?" asked the Prophet with an attempt at airy gaiety.

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Ferdinand, looking rather like an elderly maiden lady when she unexpectedly encounters her cook taking an airing with a corporal in the Life Guards, "the pair of persons you expected, sir, has come."

The Prophet blushed.

"Oh! You--you haven't disturbed Mrs. Merillia with them, I hope," he rejoined.

"No, sir, indeed. Gustavus said your orders was that they was to be shown quietly to the library."

"Exactly."

"I begged them to walk a-tiptoe, sir."

"What?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Prophet.

"I informed them there was illness in the house, sir."

"And did they--er--?"

"The male person got on his toes at once, sir, but the female person shrieks out, 'Is it catching? Ho! Think of--of Capericornopus,' sir, or something to that effect."

"Tch! Tch!"

"I took the liberty to say, sir, that ankles was not catching, and that I would certainly think of Capericornopus if she would but walk a-tiptoe."

"Well, and--"

"By hook and cook I got them to the library, sir. But the male person's boots creaked awful. The getting on his toes, sir seemed to induce it, as you might say."

"Yes, yes. So they're in the library?"

"They are, sir, and have been talking incessant, sir, ever since they was put there. We can hear their voices in our hall, sir."

Mr. Ferdinand again pursed his lips and looked like an elderly lady. The Prophet could no longer meet his eye.

"Bring some tea, Mr. Ferdinand, quietly to the library. And--and if Mrs.

Merillia should ask for me say I'm--say I'm busy--er--writing."

Mr. Ferdinand moved a step backward.

"Master Hennessey!" he cried in a choked voice. "I, a London butler, and you ask me to--!"

"No, no. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ferdinand. Simply say I'm busy. That will be quite true. I shall be--very busy."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Ferdinand with a stern and at length successful effort to conquer his outraged feelings.

He wavered heavily away to fetch the tea, while the Prophet, like a guilty thing, stole towards the library. When he drew near to the door he heard a somewhat resounding hubbub of conversation proceeding within the chamber. He distinguished two voices. One was the hollow and sepulchral organ of Malkiel the Second, the other was a heavy and authoritative contralto, of the buzzing variety, which occasionally gave an almost professional click--suggesting mechanism--as the speaker pa.s.sed from the lower to the upper register of her voice. As the Prophet reached the mat outside the door he heard the contralto voice say,--

"How are we to know it really is only ankles?"

The voice of Malkiel the Second replied plaintively,--

"But the gentleman who opened the door and--"

The contralto voice clicked, and pa.s.sed to its upper register.

"You are over fifty years of age," it said with devastating compa.s.sion, "and you can still trust a gentleman who opens doors! _O sanctum simplicitatus!_"

On hearing this sudden gush of cla.s.sical erudition the Prophet must have been seized by a paralysing awe, for he remained as if glued to the mat, and made no effort to open the door and step into the room.

"If I am sanctified, Sophronia," said the voice of Malkiel, "I cannot help it, indeed I can't. We are as we are."

"Did Bottom say so in his epics?" cried the contralto, contemptuously.

"Did Shakespeare imply that when he invented his immortal Bacon, or Carlyle, the great c.u.mberland sage, when he penned his world-famed 'Sartus'?"

"P'r'aps not, my dear. You know best. Still, ordinary men--not that I, of course, can claim to be one--must remain, to a certain extent, what they are."

"Then why was Samuel Smiles born?"

"What, my love?"

"Why, I say? Where is the use of effort? Of what benefit was Plato's existence to the republic? Of what a.s.sistance has the great Tracy Tupper been if men must still, despite all his proverbs, remain what they are?

_O curum hominibus! O imitatori! Servus pec.u.m!_"

At this point the voice of Mr. Ferdinand remarked in the small of the Prophet's back,--

"Shall I set down the tea on the mat, sir, or--"

The Prophet bounded into the library, tingling in every vein. His panther-like entrance evidently took the two conversationalists aback, for Malkiel the Second, who had been plaintively promenading about the room, still on his toes according to the behest of Mr. Ferdinand, sat down violently on a small table as if he had been shot, while the contralto voice, which had been sitting on a saddle-back chair by the hearth, simultaneously bounced up; both these proceedings being carried out with the frantic prompt.i.tude characteristic of complete and unhesitating terror.

"I beg your pardon!" said the Prophet. "I hope I haven't disturbed you."

Malkiel the Second leaned back, the contralto voice leaned forward, and both breathed convulsively.

"I really must apologise," continued the Prophet. "I fear I have startled you."

His guests swallowed nothing simultaneously and mechanically drew out their handkerchiefs. Then Malkiel feebly got up and the contralto voice feebly sank down again.