n up by
explainings!"

She tatted. The Prophet bowed before her decision and left the apartment
feeling rather hungry. Fancy Quinglet's crumbs were not always crumbs
of comfort. He resolved to apply again to Mr. Malkiel, and this time to
make the application in person. But before he did so he thought it
right to tell Mrs. Merillia, who was still steeped in bandages, of his
intention. He therefore went straight to her room from Fancy Quinglet's.
Mrs. Merillia was lying upon a couch reading a Russian novel. A cup of
tea stood beside her upon a table near a bowl of red and yellow tulips,
a canary was singing in its cage amid a shower of bird-seed, and "the
dog" lay stretched before the blazing fire upon a milk-white rug, over
which a pale ray of winter sunshine fell. As the Prophet came in Mrs.
Merillia glanced up.

"Hennessey," she said, "you are growin' to look like Lord Brandling,
when he combined the Premiership with the Foreign Office and we had that
dreadful complication with Iceland. My dear boy, you are corrugated with
thought and care. What is the matter? My ankle is much better. You
need not be anxious about me. Has Venus been playing you another jade's
trick?"

The Prophet sat down and stroked Beau's sable back with his forefinger.

"I have scarcely looked at Venus since you were injured, grannie," he
answered. "I have scarcely dared to."

"I'm glad to hear it. Since the days of Adonis she has always had a
dangerous influence on young men. If you want to look at anybody, look
at that pretty, sensible cousin of Robert Green's."

"Lady Enid. Yes, she is sensible. I believe she is in Hampshire staying
with the Churchmores."

He looked calmer for a moment, but the corrugated expression quickly
returned.

"Grannie," he said, "I think it my duty to make an effort to see Mr.
Malkiel."

"The _Almanac_ man. What do you want with him?"

She tapped one of her small, mittened hands over the other and slightly
twisted her long and pointed nose.

"I want to learn his views on this strange faculty of prophecy. Has it
ever occurred to you that among all our immense acquaintance we don't
number a single prophet?"

"One can't know everybody, Hennessey. And I believe that prophets always
spring from the lower classes. The line must be drawn somewhere even in
these days."

"Why not draw it at millionaires then?"

"I should like to. Somethin' will have to be done. If the nobodies
continue to go everywhere the ver