The tableau that met his eyes, however, was not reassuring.  He found Madame, having laid aside her bonnet, and thrown the rabbit-skin cloak carelessly upon a settee, arranging her hair before a mirror, and shaking up the coffee-coloured lace fichu in a manner that suggested a permanent occupation of the house, while her husband, sunk in a deep armchair in an attitude of complete nervous prostration, was gazing dejectedly into the fire.  When the Prophet entered, the latter bounded with alarm, while Madame turned round, a couple of hairpins in her mouth and both hands to the back of her head.

“Ah,” she remarked, through the pins, “il a vous!  I am happy to say that I have induced Mr. Sagittarius to assume his toga virilibus, and that we have, therefore, great pleasure in yielding to your thoughtful pressure—­”

“My what?” said the Prophet, blankly.

“You thoughtful pressure, and accepting your urgent invite to dine here before proceeding to the Zoological Gardens and thence to the butler’s pantry.”

The Prophet tried not to groan while she emitted a pin and secured with it a wandering plait of raven hair.

“You’re sure, sir,” said Mr. Sagittarius, in a deplorable voice, “that the gentleman is convinced that I am really an American syndicate?”

The Prophet rang the bell.  He could not trust himself to speak, and, when he looked at Madame’s large and determined eyes, he knew that to do so would be useless.

Mr. Ferdinand appeared.

“Mr. Ferdinand,” said the Prophet, “this lady and gentleman will join us at dinner to-night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Ferdinand, casting a glance of outraged prudery upon Mr. Sagittarius, who was attired in his usual morning costume, including spats.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Ferdinand?” asked the Prophet, following that functionary’s eyes.  “Ha!  He’s not dressed!”

“No, sir!”

“Mr. Sagittarius,” cried the Prophet, “you’re not dressed!”

“Sir,” cried that gentleman, “do you dare to accuse me of impropriety in a frock coat?”

“No, no.  But for dinner.  You can’t possibly dine like that!”

“I have dined like this, sir, for the last twenty years.  The architects and their wives—­”

“I daresay.  But unluckily there will be no architects and their wives at dinner to-night.  Please stand up.”

“Sir?”

“Kindly stand up.  Mr. Ferdinand!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Place your back against this gentleman’s if you please—­touching, touching!  Don’t wriggle away like that.  Keep your heels to the ground while I fetch a sheet of notepaper.  Don’t move your heads either of you.  I thought so.  You’re pretty much the same height.  Mr. Ferdinand, you will lay out a white shirt and one of your black dress suits in my dressing-room at once.  Madame, I regret that we must leave you for a few moments.  Will you rest here?  Allow me to place a cushion for your head.  And here is Juvenal in the original.”