When he reached the dark green mansion of Lady Enid’s worthy father, the Marquis of Glome, and had applied the bronze demon that served as a knocker four separate times to the door, he was still so lost in thought that he started violently on the appearance of the Scotch retainer at the portal, and behaved for a moment as if he were considering which of two courses he should pursue:  i.e., whether he should clamber frantically into the seclusion of the area, or take boldly to the open street.  Before he could do either M’Allister, the retainer, had magnetised him into the hall, relieved him of his hat—­almost with the seductive adroitness of a Drury Lane thief—­and drawn him down a tartan passage into a very sensible-looking boudoir, in which Lady Enid was sitting by a wood fire with a very tall and lusty young man.

“Mr. Hennessey Vivian!”

“What, Bob—­you here!” said the Prophet to the lusty young man, after shaking hands a little distractedly with Lady Enid.

“Yes, old chap.  But I’m just off.  I know you two want to have a confab,” returned Mr. Robert Green, wringing his old school friend’s hand.  “Niddy’s given me the chuck.  And anyhow I’m bound to look in at the Bath Club at four to fence with Chicky Bostock.”

Mr. Green spoke in a powerful baritone voice, rolling his r’s, and showing his large and square white teeth in a perpetual cheery and even boisterous smile.  He was what is called a thorough good fellow, springy in body and essentially gay in soul.  That he was of a slightly belated temperament will be readily understood when we say that he was at this time just beginning to whistle, with fair correctness, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” to discuss the character of Becky Sharp, to dwell upon the remarkable promise as a vocalist shown by Madame Adelina Patti, and to wonder at the marvellous results said to be accomplished by the telephone.  He had also never heard of Christian Science, and was totally unaware that there exists in the metropolis a modest and retiring building called “The Imperial Institute.”  Nevertheless, he was repeatedly spoken of by substantial people as a young man of many parts, was a leading spirit in Yeomanry circles, and was greatly regarded by the Prophet as a trusty friend and stalwart upholder of the British Empire.  He had rather the appearance of a bulwark, and something of the demeanour of a flourishing young oak tree.

“Yes, Bob, you’ve got to go,” assented Lady Enid, examining the Prophet’s slightly distorted countenance with frank, and even eager, curiosity.  “Mr. Vivian and I are going to talk of modern things.”

“I know, Thackeray and Patti, and three-volume novels, and skirt dancing, and all the rest of it,” said Mr. Green, with unaffected reverence.  “Well, I’m off.  I say, Hen, pop in at the Bath on your way home and have a whiskey and soda.  I shall just be out of the hot room and—­”

“I’m sorry, Bob,” said the Prophet with almost terrible solemnity, “that I can’t, that—­in fact—­I am unable.”