He avoided the glance of her bright eyes, and continued.

“Grannie, I am deeply grieved at all you have gone through to-day.  Believe me it has not been my fault—­at least not entirely.  I may have been injudicious, but I never—­never—­”

He paused, quite overcome with emotion.

“I don’t know what will happen if the telegrams go on till midnight,” said Mrs. Merillia.  “The Duke of Camberwell is a very violent man, since he had that sunstroke at the last Jubilee, and I shouldn’t wonder if he—­”

“Grannie, there will not be any more telegrams.”

“But you said that before, Hennessey.”

“And I say it again.  There will not be any more.  I have just informed the messenger that the next boy who knocks will certainly be—­well, destroyed.”

Mrs. Merillia breathed a sigh of relief.

“I am so thankful, Hennessey.  Are you dining out to-night?”

“No, grannie.  I don’t feel very well.  I have a headache.  I shall go and lie down for a little.”

“Yes, do.  Everybody is lying down; Fancy, the upper housemaid, the cook.  Even Gustavus, they tell me, is trying to snatch a little uneasy repose on his what-not.  It has been a terrible day.”

Mrs. Merillia lay back and closed her eyes, and the Prophet, overwhelmed with remorse, retired to his room, lay down and stared desperately at nothing for half an hour.  He then ate, with a very poor appetite, a morsel of dinner and prepared to take, if possible, a short nap before starting on the labours of the night.  As he got up from the dining table to go upstairs he said to Mr. Ferdinand,—­

“By the way, Mr. Ferdinand, if I should come into the pantry again to-night, don’t be alarmed.  I may chance to require a bradawl as I did last night.  Kindly leave one out, in case I should.  But you need not sit up.”

As the Prophet said the last words he looked Mr. Ferdinand full in the face.  The butler’s eyes fell.

“Thank you, Master Hennessey, I shall be glad to get to bed—­entirely to bed—­in good time.  We are all a bit upset in the kit—­that is the hall to-day.”

“Just so.  Retire to rest at once if you like.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Gustavus,” said Mr. Ferdinand, a moment later in the servants’ hall, “you are a man of the world, I believe.”

Gustavus roused himself on his what-not.

“I am, Mr. Ferdinand,” he replied, in a pale and exhausted manner.

“Then tell me, Gustavus, have you ever lived in service with a gentleman who was partial to a bradawl—­of a night, you understand?”

“No, never, Mr. Ferdinand.  The nearest to it ever I got was the Bishop of Clapham.”

“Explain yourself, Gustavus, I beg.”

“He used to ask for a nip sometimes before retiring, Mr. Ferdinand.”

“A nip, Gustavus?”

“Warm water, with a slice of toast in it.  But he was only what they call a suburban bishop, Mr. Ferdinand.”