“It was this, sir—­to mix with no prophets so long as we both should live.  Prophets, she truly said, are low-class, even dirty, persons.  Their parties, their ‘at homes’ are shoddy.  They live in fourth-rate neighbourhoods.  They burn gas and sit on horsehair.  Only in rare cases do they have any bathroom in their houses.  Their influence would be bad for the children when they begin to grow up.  How could Corona make her debut”—­Malkiel pronounced it debbew—­“in prophetic circles?  How could she come out in Drakeman’s Villas, Tooting, or dance with such young fellers as frequent Hagglin’s Buildings, Clapham Rise?  How could she do it, sir?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” gasped the Prophet.

“Nor I, sir, nor I,” continued Malkiel, with unabated fervour.  “And it’s the same with Capricornus.  My boy shall not be thrown in with prophets.  Did Malkiel the First start the Almanac for that?  Did he foster it till it went from the poor servant girl’s attic into the gilded apartments of the aristocracy and lay even upon Royal tables for that?  Did he, I say?”

“I haven’t an idea,” said the Prophet.

“He did not, sir.  And I—­I myself”—­he arranged the diamond pin in his white satin tie with an almost imperial gesture—­“have not followed upon the lines he laid down without imbibing, as I may truly say, the lofty spirit that guided him, the lofty social spirit, as Madame calls it.  There have been other prophets, I know.  There are other prophets.  I do not attempt to deny it.  But where else than here, sir”—­the dogskin glove lay upon the breast of the chocolate brown frock coat—­“where else than here will you find a prophet who hides his identity beneath an alias, who remains, as Madame always says, perdew, and who conducts his profession on honourable and business-like lines?  Am I dressed like a prophet?” He suddenly brought his doubled fist down upon the Prophet’s knee.

“No,” cried Hennessey.  “Certainly not!”

“Why, sir, how can I be when I tell you that Merriman & Saxster of Regent Street are my tailors, and have been since my first pair of trouserings?  Do I bear myself prophetically?  I think you will agree that I do not when you know that I am frequently mistaken for an outside broker—­yes, sir, and that this has even happened upon the pier at Margate.  You have seen my demeanour at Jellybrand’s.  You saw me come into the library.  You saw my manner with Frederick Smith.  Was it assuming?  Did I lord it over the lad?”

“Certainly not.”

“No.  I might have been anybody, any ordinary person living in Grosvenor Place, or, like yourself, in the Berkeley Square.  And so it ever is.  Other prophets there are—­possibly men of a certain ability even in that direction—­but there is only one Malkiel, only one who attends strictly to business, who draws a good income from the stars, sir, and satisfies the public month in, month out, without making a fuss about it.  Wait a few years, sir, only wait!”