th it so violently that it entirely disappeared.

"But Malkiel is an--" began Mrs. Merillia.

The Prophet stopped her with a glance, whose almost terror-stricken
authority surprised her into silence.

"But I thought Malkiel was a man," cried Lady Enid, looking towards the
Prophet.

"He--for I will not foul my lips with the accursed name--is not a
man," roared Sir Tiglath. "He is a syndicate. He is a company. He meets
together, doubtless, in some low den of the city. He reads reports to
himself of the ill-gotten gains accruing from his repeated insults to
the heavens round some abominable table covered with green cloth. He
quotes the prices of the shares in him, and declares dividends, and
carries balances forward, and some day will wind himself up or cast
himself anew upon the mercy of the market. Part of him is probably
Jew, part South African and part America. The whole of him is thrice
accursed."

He began to expand once more, but Mrs. Merillia perceived the tendency
and checked it in time.

"Pray, Sir Tiglath," she said almost severely, "don't. With my sprained
ankle I am really not equal to it."

Sir Tiglath had enough chivalry to stop, and Lady Enid once again
chipped in.

"But, really, I'm almost sure Malkiel is a--"

She caught the Prophet's eye, as Mrs. Merillia had, and paused. He
turned to the astronomer.

"But how can a company make itself into a prophet?" he asked.

"Young man, you talk idly! What are companies formed for if not to make
profits?" retorted Sir Tiglath. "Every one is a company nowadays. Don't
you know that? Murchison, the famous writer of novels, is a company.
Jeremy, the actor-manager, is a company. So is Bynion the quack doctor,
and the Rev. Mr. Kinnimer who supplies tracts to the upper classes, and
Upton the artist, whose pictures make tours like Sarah Bernhardt, and
Watkins, whose philosophy sells more than Tupper's, and Caroline Jingo,
who writes war poems and patriotic odes. If you were to invite these
supposed seven persons to dinner, and all of them came, you would have
to lay covers for at least fifty scoundrels. Oh-h-h-h!"

"Well, but how are you sure that--ahem--the _Almanac_ person is also
plural, Sir Tiglath?" inquired Mrs. Merillia.

"Because I sought him with the firm intention of assault and battery
for five-and-forty years," returned the astronomer. "And only gave up my
Christian quest when I was assured, on excellent authority, that he was
a company, and had