By being on the alert for sounds, he heard what did not comport with the comfort of his office.  Prophet Elias was engaged in his regular morning tour of duty, picketing T. Britt’s domains, giving an hour to deliverance of taunting texts before going abroad through the town on his mission to the people with texts of comfort; the Prophet carried plenty of penetrating, textual ammunition, but he carried poultices for the spirit as well.

Mr. Britt heard:  “’Will he esteem thy riches?  No, not gold, nor all the forces of strength.’”

The usurer commented under his breath with remarks that were not scriptured.  He threw away his cigar and went to a case where he kept some law books which contained the statutes that were concerned with money and debts and dependence; he had been hunting through the legislative acts regarding vagrants and paupers and had been hoping to light on some legal twist that would serve him.  The Prophet kept on proclaiming.  But all at once he shifted from taunts about riches.  His voice was mellow with sincere feeling.

Said the Prophet:  “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks.  Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep which came up from the washing.  Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely.  Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.’”

Mr. Britt did not wait in his office for the completion of the panegyric.  He knew well enough what arriving personage it heralded.  He hurried out into the corridor and faced the radiant girl who came in from the sunshine.  Even one who might question the Prophet’s tact would not have blamed his enthusiasm.

“Vona, you swear out a warrant and I’ll have him arrested,” stammered the employer.

She checked a chirrup of laughter and her smile faded when she opened her eyes on Britt’s sourness.

“There’s a law about hectoring and insulting a female person on the street—­some kind of a law—­and we’ll invoke it in this case,” Britt insisted.

“Why, Mr. Britt, he’s only a harmless old man with extremely poor judgment about most things, including a girl’s looks,” she protested.

“Don’t you call that gabble an insult to you, walking along and minding your own business?” His heat was alarming; he shook his fist to indicate the Prophet.

She was unable to restrain her demure smile.  “The specifications, sir, are overflattering; but I’m sure I don’t feel insulted.”

In the past Britt had purred paternally in her presence and had stared at her in a way that often disconcerted her.  Now his expression alarmed her.  His face grew red.  At first she thought he was embarrassed by the reflection that he had been terming the Prophet’s compliments an insult—­intimating that she had no claim to such compliments.  But Mr. Britt did not bother to deal with that phase of the matter.  The flame was shifted from his face to his eyes; his cheeks grew pale.  He tried to put his arm about her.  She set her gloved hands against the arm and pushed it away, fright popping her eyelids wide apart.