So saying, the Prophet hurried Mr. Sagittarius from the room, driving Mr. Ferdinand, in a condition of elephantine horror, before him, and abandoning Madame to an acquaintance with the classics that she had certainly never achieved in the society of the renowned Dr. Carter.

CHAPTER XVII

MALKIEL THE SECOND IS MISTAKEN FOR A RATCATCHER

“If you tremble like that, of course it must look too big!” exclaimed the Prophet to Mr. Sagittarius, a quarter of an hour later.  “Draw it in at the back.”

Mr. Sagittarius, with shaking hands, drew in the waistcoat of Mr. Ferdinand, which hung in folds around his thin and agitated figure.

“That’s better,” said the Prophet.  “They won’t notice anything odd.  But you’ve turned up your—­Mr. Ferdinand’s trousers!”

“They’re too long, sir.  You braced them too low for—­”

“I braced them low on purpose,” cried the Prophet in great excitement, “to cover the spats, since you can’t get on Mr. Ferdinand’s boots.  Kindly turn them down.”

“As to the spats, sir, the architects and their wives—­”

“Mr. Sagittarius,” exclaimed the Prophet, “I think it right to inform you that if you mention the architects and their wives again, I may very probably go mad.  I don’t say I shall, but I will not answer for myself.  Have the goodness to turn them down and follow me.”

Mr. Sagittarius obeyed, and followed the Prophet from the room with a waddling gait and a terrible sensation of having nothing on.  The coat and trousers which he wore flapped about him as he descended the stairs in the wake of the Prophet, glancing nervously about him and starting at the slightest sound.  In the library they found Madame, holding the great Juvenile upside down and looking exceedingly cross.

“Will you be good enough to come upstairs?” said the Prophet to her very politely, though his fingers twitched to strangle her.  “I wish to present you to my grandmother, and dinner is just ready.”

Madame rose with dignity.

“I am ready too,” she said, with a click. “Semper paratis.”

And, shaking up the fichu, she ascended the stairs.  Outside the drawing-room door the Prophet, who seemed strangely calm, but who was in reality almost bursting with nervous excitement, paused and faced his old and valued friends.

“You will forgive my saying so, I hope,” he whispered, “but my grandmother is not well and much conversation tires her.  So we don’t talk too much in her presence.  Only just now and then, you understand.”

And with this last injunction—­futile, he knew as he gave it—­he commended himself to whatever powers there be and opened the door.