Having at last emerged from his Epicurean silence, the astronomer now proceeded to take the floor.  Satisfied that he had laid a presuming female low, he swung round, as if on a pivot, to where Mr. Sagittarius was sitting in the greatest agitation, and roared,—­

“And now, sir what is all this about your being an outside broker?  I was distinctly informed by this gentleman only a night or two ago that you were a distinguished astronomer.”

“I am betrayed!” cried Mr. Sagittarius, dropping the knife and fork which he had just picked up for the dissection of a lobster croquette.  “I said this was a trap.  I said it was a rat-trap from the first.”

“I knew he must be a ratcatcher,” whispered Lady Julia to the Prophet, who was about to rise from his seat and endeavour to calm his guest.  “I was certain no one but a ratcatcher could talk in such a manner.”

“He is not indeed!  Mr. Sagittarius, pray sit down!  You are alarming my grandmother.”

“I can’t help that, sir.  I am not going to sit here, sir, and be slain.”

“Tsh!  Tsh!  I merely informed Sir Tiglath the other evening that what Miss Minerva had told him about you was true.”

“Miss Minerva!” cried Madame, glancing at her husband in a most terrible manner.  “Miss Minerva!”

“Lady Enid Thistle, I mean,” cried the Prophet, mentally cursing the day when he was born.

“Who’s that?” exclaimed Madame, beginning to look almost exactly like Medusa.

“A young female who informed the old astronomer that your husband and an elderly female named Mrs. Bridgeman had for a long while been carrying on astronomical investigations together—­”

“Carrying on together!” vociferated Madame.  “Jupiter!”

“And that they had come to the conclusion that there was probably oxygen in certain of the holy fixed stars.  Oxygen, so the elderly female—­”

“Oxygen in an elderly female!” cried Madame, in the greatest excitement.  “Jupiter, is this true?”

Mr. Sagittarius was about to bring forward a flat denial when the Prophet, leaning behind the terrified back of Lady Julia, hissed in his ear,—­

“Say yes, or he’ll find out who you really are!”

“Yes,” cried Mr. Sagittarius, in a catapultic manner.

Madame began to show elaborate symptoms of preparation for a large-sized fit of hysterics.  She caught her breath five or six times running in a resounding manner, heaved her bosom beneath the green chiffon and coffee-coloured lace, and tore feebly with both hands at a large medallion brooch that was doing sentry duty near her throat.

“Pray, pray, Madame,” exclaimed the Prophet, who was now near his wits’ end.  “Pray—­”

“How can I pray at table, sir?” she retorted, suddenly showing fight.  “You forget yourself.”

“Oh, Hennessey,” said poor Mrs. Merillia, “what does all this mean?”

“Nothing, grannie, nothing except that Mr. Sagittarius is a very modest man and does not care to acknowledge the greatness of his talents.  Pray sit down, Mr. Sagittarius.  Here is the ice pudding.  Madame, I am sure you will take some ice.  Mr. Ferdinand!”