The footman put down the tumbler which he was in the act of raising to his pouted lips.

“Assistance, Mr. Ferdinand!” he ejaculated.  “Mrs. Merillia, Mr. Ferdinand!”

“She may—­we say she may—­have to be carried to bed, Gustavus.”

Gustavus’s jaw dropped, and the French Revolution fluttered in his startled hands.

“Good lawks, Mr. Ferdinand!” he exclaimed (not quoting from Carlyle).

“Have an armchair ready in the hall, Gustavus.  Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped.  You understand?  That will do, Gustavus.”

And Mr. Ferdinand passed to the adjacent supper-table, to join the upper housemaid in a discussion of two subjects that were very near to their hearts, a round of beef and a tureen of pickled cabbage, while Gustavus got up from the what-not in a bemused manner, and proceeded to search dreamily for an armchair.  He came upon one by chance in the dining-room, and wheeled it out into the hall just as the clocks in the house rang out the half-hour after eleven.

The Prophet above sprang up from the couch by the fire, Mr. Ferdinand below closed his discussion with the upper housemaid, and the former rapidly came down, the latter up, stairs as the roll of wheels broke through the silence of the square.

Gustavus, in an attitude of bridled curiosity, was posed beneath a polar bear that held an electric lamp.  His hand was laid upon the back of the armchair, and his round hazel eyes were turned expectantly towards the hall as his two masters joined him.

“Is all ready, Mr. Ferdinand?” said the Prophet, anxiously.

“All is ready, sir,” replied the butler.

“Wheel the chair forward, Gustavus, if you please,” said the Prophet.  “Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped.  Remember that.”

“Not be dropped, sir—­no.”

The chair ran forward on its amicable castors as a carriage was heard to stop outside.  Mr. Ferdinand flung open the portal, and the Prophet glided out excitedly upon the step.

“Well?” he cried, “well?”

A footman, in a long drab coat with red facings, was preparing to get off the box of a smart brougham, but before he could reach the pavement, a charming head, covered with a lace cap, was thrust out of the window, and a musical and almost girlish voice cried,—­

“All nonsense, Hennessey, all rubbish!  Saturn don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.  Look!”

The carriage door was vivaciously opened from the inside and a delightful little old lady, dressed in brown silk, with a long, cheerful pointed nose, rosy cheeks, and chestnut hair—­that almost mightn’t have been a wig in certain lights—­prepared to leap forth without waiting for the reverent assistance that the Prophet, flanked by Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus, was in waiting to afford.

As she jumped, she began to cry, “Not much wrong with me, is there, Hennessey?” but before the sentence was completed she had caught her neat foot in her brown silk gown, had stumbled from the step of the carriage to the pavement, had twisted her pretty ankle, had reeled and almost fallen, had been caught by the Prophet and Mr. Ferdinand, borne tenderly into the hall, and placed in the armchair which the terrified Gustavus, with almost enraged ardour, drove forward to receive her.  As she sank down in it, helpless, Mrs. Merillia exclaimed, with unabated vivacity,—­