They are no longer on terms with the Prophet.

He has retired from business and put down his telescope once and for all, recognising that prophecy is a dangerous employment, and one likely to bring about the very evils it foreshadows.  Calmly he dwells with his beloved grandmother in the Berkeley Square, which has received them once more into its former favour.  Sometimes, at night, when the sky is clear, and the bright stars, the guardian stars, keep watch over his aristocratic neighbourhood, he draws aside the curtain from the drawing-room window and glances forth at Mercury and Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus.  And when his eyes meet their twinkling eyes, he exchanges with them—­not a question and answer, not a demand for unholy information and a reluctant reply, but a serene, gentlemanly and perfectly decorous good-night.