“Which ones?” said the Prophet.

“Of your grandmother’s career.”

“Oh, I—­”

“Let us take them in order, please, and proceed parri passo.  When was the old lady removed from the bottle?”

“Never,” replied the Prophet, firmly.  “Never.”

An expression of incredulous amazement decorated the obstreperous features of Madame.

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vivian, that she sucks it still?” she inquired.

“I mean what I say, that she has never been removed from it,” returned the Prophet, with energy.

“Well, sir, she must be very partial to milk and Indian rubber, very partial indeed!” said Mr. Sagittarius.  “Go on, my darling.”

“Her first tooth, Mr. Vivian—­when did she cut it?”

“She has no idea.”

Madame began to look decidedly grim.

“Date of short-coating?” she rapped out.

“There was no date.  She never wore a short-coat.”

“Do you desire me to believe, Mr. Vivian, that the old lady has been going about in long clothes ever since she was born?” inquired Madame, with incredulous sarcasm.

“Most certainly I do,” replied the Prophet.

“Then how does she get along, pray?  Come!  Come!”

“She has always worn long clothes,” cried the Prophet, boldly standing up for his beloved relative, “and always will.  You can take that from me, Madame Sagittarius.  I know my grandmother, and I am ready to pledge my honour to it.”

“Oh, very well.  She must be a very remarkable lady.  That’s all I can say.  When did she put her hair up?”

“Never.  She has never put it up.”

“She has never put her hair up!”

“No, never.”

“You mean to say that your grandmother goes about in long clothes with her hair down in the central districts?” cried Madame in blank amazement.

“She has never put her hair up,” answered the Prophet, with almost obstinate determination.

“Oh, well—­if she prefers!  But I wonder what the police are about!” retorted Madame.  “And now the rashes?”

“There are none.”

But at this Madame’s temper—­already somewhat upset by her prolonged communion with the mighty dead—­showed symptoms of giving way altogether.

“Rubbish, Mr. Vivian!” she said, clicking loudly and passing with an almost upheaving jerk to her upper register!  “I’m a mother and was once a child.  Rubbish!  I must insist upon knowing the number of the rashes.”

“I assure you there are none.”

“D’you wish me to believe that the old lady has gone about all her life in the Berkeley Square in long clothes and her hair down, with her lips to the bottle and never had a rash?  Do you wish me to believe that, Mr. Vivian?”

“Yes, sir, do you wish Madame, a lady of deep education, sir, to believe that?” cried Mr. Sagittarius.

“I can only adhere to what I have said,” answered the Prophet.  “My grandmother has never been removed from the bottle, has never worn a short coat, has never put her hair up and has never had an epidemic in Berkeley Square.”