“Not at home, ma’am,” the Prophet heard him say, formally.

“What d’you mean, young man?” replied the powerful voice of Madame.  “Where is my husband?”

“Ma’am?”

“Where, I say, is my husband?”

“I couldn’t say, I’m sure, ma’am.  But Mrs. Merillia and Mr. Vivian are not at home.”

“Then all I can say is they ought to be in at this time of night.  Permit me to pass.  Are you aware that Mr. Vivian has invited me to spend the night here? Noctes ambrosianes.”

“But, ma’am, Mr. Viv—­”

“That’ll do.  If I have any more of your impertinence I’ll make you repent of it.  You are evidently not aware who I am.”

The Prophet, by the hat-rack, did not fail to hear a new note in the deep contralto of Madame, a note of triumph, a trumpet note of profound conceit.  His heart sank before this determined music, and it sank even lower towards his pumps when, a moment later, he found himself confronted by the lady, wrapped closely in the rabbit-skins, and absolutely bulging with vanity and self-appreciation.

“What!  Mr. Vivian!” began the lady.

“Hush!” said the Prophet, “for mercy’s sake—­hush!”

And, acting upon the impulse of the moment, he suddenly seized Madame by the hand, and hurried her through the swinging door into the servants’ hall.

“Here’s a go,” murmured Gustavus in the greatest trepidation.  “If they don’t find the thin party I’m a josser.”

Meanwhile the Prophet and Madame were standing face to face before the what-not of Gustavus.

“My grandmother is awake—­that is asleep,” said the Prophet.  “We must not wake her on any account.”

“Oh,” returned Madame, with a toss of her head, “your grandmother seems to be a very fidgety old lady, I’m sure—­although you do tell a parcel of lies about her.”

“Lies!” said the Prophet, with some dignity.

“Yes—­lies.  She don’t wear long clothes—­”

“I beg your pardon!”

“She do not.  She don’t wear her hair down.  She don’t put her lips to the bottle.  She don’t.  Where is Mr. Sagi—­where is Malkiel the Second?”

“I have no idea.  And now, Madame, I regret that I must conduct you to your carriage.  The hour is late, my grandmother is seriously indisposed, and I myself need rest.”

“Well, then, you can’t have it,” retorted the lady with authoritative spitefulness.  “You can’t have it, not till three o’clock.”

“I beg your pardon!” said the Prophet, with trembling lips.

“What for?”

“I really regret that I must retire.  Allow me—­”

“I’ll not allow you.  Where is my husband?  He’s not at the Zoological Gardens.”

“He has probably returned home.”

“To the Mouse!  Then he’s a coward and an oath-breaker, and if Sir Tiglath was to catch him I shouldn’t be sorry.  Kindly lead me at once to the telescope.  I will take his place.  No one shall say that Madame Malkiel ever flinched at duty’s call. Praesto et persistibus.  Conduct me at once to the telescope.”