As the door opened the Prophet found himself in a large apartment whose walls were decorated with the efforts of those great painters who feed the sentimental imaginations of the masses in the beautiful Christmas numbers of our artistic day.  Enchanting little girls and exceedingly human dogs observed his entrance from every hand, while such penetrating and suggestive legends as “Don’t bite!” “Mustn’t!” “Naughty!” “Would ’ums?” and the like, filled his mind with the lofty thoughts so suitable to the Christmas season.  Over the mantelpiece was a Cook’s Almanac for the Home, decorated in bright colours, a Butler’s own book, bound in claret-coloured linen, and a large framed photograph of Francatelli, that immortal chef whose memory is kept green in so many kitchens, and whose recipes are still followed as are followed the footprints of the great ones in the Everlasting Sands of Time.  One corner of the room Gustavus had made his own, and here might be seen his tasteful what-not and his little library—­neatly arranged unabridged farthing editions of Drummond’s Ascent of Man, Mill’s Liberty, Crampton’s Origin of Self-Respect, Barlow’s A Philosophical Examination into the Art and Practice of Tipping and Receiving Tips, and other volumes suitable for an intellectual footman’s reading.  An eight-day clock, which was carefully and lovingly wound up by the prudent Mrs. Fancy Quinglet every morning and evening, snored peacefully in a recess by the hearth, and, from a crevice near the window, the bright, intelligent eyes of a couple of well-developed black-beetles—­mother and son—­contentedly surveyed the cheerful scene.

The Prophet, after a moment’s pause of contemplation, passed on through a swing door, covered with green baize, and down some stairs to the inner courts of this interesting region.  This time he came to anchor in a room which, he thought, might well have been a butler’s pantry had it contained a large-sized telescope.  It was in fact the parlour set apart for the use of the kitchen and scullery maids, and was brightly fitted up with a dresser, a cupboard for skewers, a rolling-pin, a basting machine, and other similar adjuncts.  It gave on to the kitchen, in which the cat of the house was enjoying well-earned slumber in the attitude of a black ball.  So far his exploring tour had quite fulfilled the rather vague expectations of the Prophet, but he now began to feel anxious.  Time was passing on and he had sworn to be at the telescope by eleven sharp.  He had, therefore, already slightly fractured his oath, and he had no desire to earn the anathema of all such men as Robert Green by breaking it into small pieces.  Where was the butler’s pantry?  He glanced eagerly round the kitchen, perceived a door, passed through it, and found himself confronted by a sink.  He had gained the scullery, but not his goal.  To the right of the sink was yet another door through which the Prophet, who carried the planisphere in