“I’ll go to her at once.  But first bring me a glass of brandy, Mr. Ferdinand.  I’m feeling extremely unwell.”

And the Prophet, who was paler far than ashes, and beaded from top to toe with perspiration, sank down feebly upon a chair and let his head drop on the blotting-pad that lay on his writing-table.

When he had swallowed an inch or two of cognac he got up, pulled himself together with both hands, and walked, like an elderly person afflicted with incipient locomotor ataxy, upstairs into the drawing-room where Mrs. Merillia was lying on a sofa, ministered to by Fancy Quinglet, who, at the moment of his entrance, was busily engaged in stuffing a large wad of cotton-wool into the right ear of her beloved mistress.

“Leave us please, Fancy,” said Mrs. Merillia, in a voice that sounded much older than usual.  “And as your head is so bad, too, you had better lie down.”

“Thank you, ma’am.  If I keep upright, ma’am, I feel my head will split asunder.  I can’t speak different nor feel other.”

“Then don’t be upright.”

“No, ma’am.  Them that feels other, let them declare it!” and Mrs. Fancy retired, holding both hands to her temples, and uttering very distinctly sundry stifled moans.

Mrs. Merillia motioned the Prophet to a chair, and, after lying quite still for about five minutes with her eyes tightly shut, said in a weak tone of voice,—­

“How many more telegrams do you expect, Hennessey?  You have had twenty-seven within the last three hours.  Can you give me a rough general idea of the average number you anticipate will probably arrive every hour from now till the offices close?”

“Grannie, grannie, forgive me!  I assure you—­”

“Don’t be afraid to tell me, Hennessey.  It is much better to know the worst, and fact it bravely.  Will the present average be merely sustained, or do you expect the quantity to increase towards night? because if so—­”

“Grannie, there will be no more.  I swear to you solemnly that I will not have another telegram to-day.  I will not upon my sacred honour.  Nothing—­not wild horses even—­shall induce me.”

“Horses!  Then were they racing tips, Hennessey?  Yes, give me the eau de Cologne and fan me gently.  Were they racing tips?”

“Oh, grannie, how could you suppose—­”

At this moment Mr. Ferdinand entered softly and went up to Mrs. Merillia.

“Mr. Q. Elisha Hubsbee, ma’am.  He is deeply distressed and asks for news . . .”

“The Central American Ambassador’s grandfather,” said Mrs. Merillia, reading the card which Mr. Ferdinand handed to her.

“Shocked to hear you are so ill that a knock will finish you.  Guess you must be far gone.  Earnest sympathy.  Have you tried patent morphia molasses?

“Q.  E. H.”

“Ah! how things get about!  Tell Mr. Elisha Hubsbee the knocks have nearly killed us all, Mr. Ferdinand, but we are bearing up as well as can be expected.  If necessary we will certainly try the molasses.”