“As you will be when you’ve got thoroughly into your double life.  Well, my greatest friend—­in my double life, you understand—­is a Mrs. Vane Bridgeman, a Christian Scientist and Spiritualist.  She is very rich, and magnificently idiotic.  She supports all foolish charities.  She has almshouses for broken-down mediums on Sunnington Common in Kent.  She has endowed a hospital for sick fortune-tellers.  She gave five hundred pounds to the home for indigent thought-readers, and nearly as much to the ‘Palmists’ Seaside Retreat’ at Millaby Bay near Dover.  I don’t know how many Christian Science Temples she hasn’t erected, or subscribed liberally to.  She turns every table in her house.  She won’t leave even one alone.  Her early breakfasts for star-gazers are famous, and it’s impossible to dine with her without sitting next to a horoscope-caster, or being taken in—­to dinner, of course—­by a crystal diviner or a nose-prophet.”

“A nose-prophet!  What’s that?”

“A person who tells your fortune by the shape of your nose.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Well, you understand now that there’s no sillier person in London than dear Mrs. Bridgeman?”

“Oh, quite.”

“She’s done a great deal for me, more than I can ever repay.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, in introducing me to the real inner circles of idiotcy.  Well, in return, I’ve sworn—­”

“You too!”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing.  I beg your pardon.  Please go on.”

She looked at him curiously, and continued.

“I’ve sworn—­that is, pledged my honour, you know—­”

“I know!  I know!”

“To introduce her to at least one thoroughly sensible person—­a man, she prefers.”

“And you’ve chosen—?”

“Sir Tiglath, because he’s the only one I know.  Once, I confess, I thought of you.”

“Of me!”

“Yes, but of course I didn’t really know you then.”

She looked at him with genuine regard.  The Prophet scarcely knew whether to feel delighted or distressed.

“Now, you see, Mr. Vivian, if Sir Tiglath found out for certain that I was Miss Minerva, he might discover my double life, and if he did that, he is so sensible that I am sure he would never speak to me again, and I could not fulfil my vow to dear Mrs. Bridgeman.”

“I quite see.”

“Nor my other vow to myself.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“I won’t.”

“He only said that about partridges in January, I find, because he happened to see one of my letters in Jellybrand’s window.  He doesn’t associate that letter with me.  So it ought to be all right, and I’ve arranged my campaign.”

“But what can I—?”

She smiled at him with some Scottish craft.

“Don’t bother.  You’ve got to be my aide-de-camp, that’s all.  Ah, here we are!”

For at this moment the horse, with a great effort succeeded in falling down, for the last time, before the astronomer’s door.