' faces and the ogres' heads for Drury Lane.

"Don't!" at last cried a young voice. "Don't, Sir Tiglath!"

A peal of laughter followed the remark, of that laughter which is loud
and yet entirely without the saving grace of merriment, a mere sudden
demonstration of hysteria.

"Oh, Sir Tiglath--don't!"

A second laugh joined the first and rang up with it, older, but also
hysterical--Mrs. Merillia's.

"No, no--please don't, Sir Tig--Tig--"

A third laugh burst into the ring, seeming to complete it fatally--the
Prophet's.

"Sir Tiglath--for Heaven's sake--don't!"

The adjuration came from a trio of choked voices, and might have given
pause even to a descending lift or other inflexible and blind machine.

But still the astronomer grew steadily more gigantic in person and more
like the god of wine in hue. The three voices failed, and the terrible,
united laughter was just upon the point of breaking forth again when a
diversion occurred. The door of the drawing-room was softly opened, and
Mrs. Fancy Quinglet appeared upon the threshold, holding in her hands an
ice-wool shawl for the comfort of her mistress. It chanced that as the
phenomenon of the astronomer was based upon a large elbow chair exactly
facing the door she was instantly and fully confronted by it. She did
not drop the shawl, as any ordinary maid would most probably have done.
Mrs. Fancy was not of that kidney. She did not even turn tail, or give a
month's warning or a scream. She was of those women who, when they meet
the inevitable, instinctively seem to recognise that it demands courage
as a manner and truth as a greeting. She, therefore, stared straight at
Sir Tiglath--much as she stared at Mrs. Merillia when she was about to
arrange that lady's wig for an assembly--and remarked in a decisive,
though very respectful, tone of voice,--

"The gentleman's about to burst, ma'am. I can't speak different nor mean
other."

Upon finding their thoughts thus deftly gathered up and woven into
a moderately grammatical sentence, Mrs. Merillia, Lady Enid and the
Prophet experienced a sense of extraordinary relief, and no longer felt
the stern necessity of laughing. But this was not the miracle worked
by Mrs. Fancy. Had she, even then, rested satisfied with her acumen,
maintained silence and awaited the immediate fulfilment of her
prediction, what must have happened can hardly be in doubt. But she
was seized by that excess of bravery which is called foolhardiness