The Prophet began to feel rather less like Isaiah, but he continued, with some determination,—­

“If that had been all, I daresay I should have thought very little of the matter.”

“No, you wouldn’t sir.  Who thinks their first baby a little one?  Can you tell me that?”

The Prophet considered the question for a moment.  Then he answered,—­

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Perhaps so,” rejoined Malkiel, indulgently.  “Well, sir, what was your next attempt—­in the Berkeley Square?”

The Prophet’s sensitive nature winced under the obvious irony of the interrogation, but either the “creaming foam” had rendered him desperate, or he was to some extent steeled against the satire by the awful self-respect which had invaded him since Mrs. Merillia’s accident.  In any case he answered firmly,—­

“Malkiel the Second, in Berkeley Square I had a relation—­an honoured grandmother.”

“You’ve the better of me there, sir.  My parents and Madame’s are all in Brompton Cemetery.  Well, sir, you’d got an honoured grandmother in the Berkeley Square.  What of it?”

“She was naturally elderly.”

“And you predicted her death and she passed over.  Very natural too, sir.  The number two beginner’s prophecy.  Why, Corona—­”

But at this point the Prophet broke in.

“Excuse me,” he said in a scandalised voice, “excuse me, Malkiel the Second, she did nothing of the kind.  Whatever my faults may be—­and they are many, I am aware—­I—­I—­”

He was greatly moved.

“Take another sup of wine, sir.  You need it,” said Malkiel.

The Prophet mechanically drank once more, grasping the edge of the table for support in the endurance of the four-bob ecstasy.

“You prophesied it and she didn’t pass over, sir,” continued Malkiel, with unaffected sympathy.  “I understand the blow.  It’s cruel hard when a prophecy goes wrong.  Why, even Madame—­”

But at this point the Prophet broke in.

“You are mistaken,” he cried.  “Utterly mistaken.”

Malkiel the Second drew himself up with dignity.

“In that case I will say no more,” he remarked, pursing up his lengthy mouth and assuming a cast-iron attitude.

The Prophet perceived his mistake.

“Forgive me,” he exclaimed.  “It is my fault.”

“Oh, no, sir.  Not at all,” rejoined Malkiel, with icy formality.  “Pray let the fault be mine.”

“I will not indeed.  But let me explain.  My beloved grandmother still lives, although I cast her horoscope and—­”

“Indeed! very remarkable!”

“I mean—­not although—­but I thought I would cast her horoscope.  And I did so.”

“In the square?” asked Malkiel, with quiet, but piercing, irony.

“Yes,” said the Prophet, with sudden heat.  “Why not?”

Malkiel smiled with an almost paternal pity, as of a thoughtful father gazing upon the quaint and inappropriate antics of his vacant child.