“For table-turning,” added Mrs. Bridgeman.  “Materialisation in the same room after supper.  Mr. Towle—­yes—­will enter the cabinet at about eleven.  Where’s Madame Charlotte?”

“Looking into the crystal for Lady Ferrier,” said someone.

“Oh, and the professor?”

“He’s reading Archdeacon Andrew’s nose, by the cloak-room.”

Mrs. Bridgeman sighed.

“It seems to be going off quite pleasantly,” she said vaguely to the Prophet.  “I think—­perhaps—­might I have a cup of tea?”

The Prophet offered his arm.  Mrs. Bridgeman took it.  They walked forward, and almost instantly came upon Sir Tiglath Butt, who, with a face even redder than usual, was rolling away from the hall of the guitars, holding one enormous hand to his ear and snorting indignantly at the various clairvoyants, card-readers, spiritualists and palmists whom he encountered at every step he took.  The Prophet turned pale, and Lady Enid, who was just behind him, put on her most sensible expression and moved quickly forward.

“Ah, Sir Tiglath!” she said.  “How delightful of you to come!  Catherine, dear, let me introduce Sir Tiglath Butt to you.  Sir Tiglath Butt—­Mrs. Vane Bridgeman.”

Mrs. Bridgeman behaved as usual.

“So glad!” she said.  “So enchanted!  Just a few interesting people.  So good of you to come.  Table-turning is—­”

At this moment Lady Enid nipped her friend’s arm, and Sir Tiglath exclaimed, looking from Mrs. Bridgeman to the Prophet,—­

“What, madam?  So you’re the brain and eye, eh?  Is that it?”

The guitars engaged in “The Gipsies of Granada are wild as mountain birds,” and Mrs. Bridgeman looked engagingly distraught, and replied,—­

“Ah, yes, indeed!  The brain and I, Sir Tiglath; so good of you to say so!”

“You prompted his interest in the holy stars?” continued Sir Tiglath, speaking very loud, and still stopping one ear with his hand.  “You drove him to the telescope; you told him to clear the matter up, did you?”

“What matter?” said Mrs. Bridgeman, trying not to look as stupid as she felt, but only with moderate success.

“Say the oxygen, darling,” whispered Lady Enid in one of her ears.

“Say the oxygen!” hissed the Prophet into the other.

“The occiput?” said Mrs. Bridgeman, hearing imperfectly.  “Oh, yes, Sir Tiglath, I told him,—­I told Mr. Biggle—­to make quite sure—­yes, as to the occiput matter.”

The saturnine little clergyman, who was again in motion near by, caught his name and stopped, as Sir Tiglath, roaring against “The Gipsies of Granada,” continued,—­

“And your original adviser was Mr. Sagittarius, was he?”

On hearing a word she understood, Mrs. Bridgeman brightened up, and, perceiving the little clergyman, she answered,—­

“Mr. Sagittarius—­ah, yes!  Sir Tiglath is speaking of you, Mr. Sagittarius.”