I beg.”
The Prophet began to feel rather less like Isaiah, but he continued, with some determination—
“If that had been all, I daresay I should have thought very little of the matter.”
“No, you wouldn’t sir. Who thinks their first baby a little one? Can you tell me that?”
The Prophet considered the question for a moment. Then he answered—
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Perhaps so,” rejoined Malkiel, indulgently. “Well, sir, what was your next attempt—in the Berkeley Square?”
The Prophet’s sensitive nature winced under the obvious irony of the interrogation, but either the “creaming foam” had rendered him desperate, or he was to some extent steeled against the satire by the awful self-respect which had invaded him since Mrs. Merillia’s accident. In any case he answered firmly—
“Malkiel the Second, in Berkeley Square I had a relation—an honoured grandmother.”
“You’ve the better of me there, sir. My parents and Madame’s are all in Brompton Cemetery. Well, sir, you’d got an honoured grandmother in the Berkeley Square. What of it?”
“She was naturally elderly.”
“And you predicted her death and she passed over. Very natural too, sir. The number two beginner’s prophecy. Why, Corona—”
But at this point the Prophet broke in.
“Excuse me,” he said in a scandalised voice, “excuse me, Malkiel the Second, she did nothing of the kind. Whatever my faults may be—and they are many, I am aware—I—I—”
He was greatly moved.
“Take another sup of wine, sir. You need it,” said Malkiel.
The Prophet mechanically drank once more, grasping the edge of the table for support in the endurance of the four-bob ecstasy.
“You prophesied it and she didn’t pass over, sir,” continued Malkiel, with unaffected sympathy. “I understand the blow. It’s cruel hard when a prophecy goes wrong. Why, even Madame—”
But at this point the Prophet broke in.
“You are mistaken,” he cried. “Utterly mistaken.”
Malkiel the Second drew himself up with dignity.
“In that case I will say no more,” he remarked, pursing up his lengthy mouth and assuming a cast-iron attitude.
The Prophet perceived his mistake.
“Forgive me,” he exclaimed. “It is my fault.”
“Oh, no, sir. Not at all,” rejoined Malkiel, with icy formality. “Pray let the fault be mine.”
“I will not indeed. But let me explain. My beloved grandmother still lives, although I cast her horoscope and—”
“Indeed! very remarkable!”
“I mean—not although—but I thought I would cast her horoscope. And I did so.”
“In the square?” asked Malkiel, with quiet, but piercing, irony.
“Yes,” said the Prophet, with sudden heat. “Why not?”
Malkiel smiled with an almost paternal pity, as of a thoughtful father gazing upon the quaint and inappropriate antics of his vacant child.
“Why not, sir—if you prefer it?” he rejoined. “Pray proceed.”
The Prophet’s face was flushed, either by the “creaming foam,” or by irritation, or by both.
“Surely,” he began, in a choking voice, “surely the stars are the same whether they are looked at from Berkeley Square or from—from—or from”—he sought passionately for a violent contrast—“from Newington Butts,” he concluded triumphantly.
“I have not the pleasure to have ever observed my guides from the neighbourhood of the Butts,” said Malkiel, serenely. “But pray proceed, sir. I am all attention. You cast your honoured grandmother’s horoscope—in the Berkeley Square.”
The Prophet seized his glass, but some remnants of his tattered self-control still clung to him, and he put it down without seeking further madness from its contents.
“I did,” he said firmly, even obstinately. “And I discovered—I say discovered that she was going to have an accident while on an evening expedition—or jaunt as you might perhaps prefer to call it.”
“I should certainly call it so—in the case of a lady who was an honoured grandmother,” said Malkiel the Second in assent.
“Well, Malkiel the Second,” continued the Prophet, recovering his composure as he approached his coup, “my grandmother did have an accident, as I foretold.”
“Did she have it in the square, sir?” asked Malkiel.
“And what if she did?” cried the Prophet with considerable testiness.
He was beginning to conceive a perfect hatred of the admirable neighbourhood, which he had loved so well.
“I merely ask for information, sir.”
“The accident did take place in the square certainly, and on the very night for which I predicted it.”
Malkiel the Second looked very thoughtful, even morose. He poured out another glass of champagne, drank it slowly in sips, and when the glass was empty ran the forefinger of his right hand slowly round and round its edge.
“Can Madame be wrong?” he ejaculated at length, in a muffled voice of meditation. “Can Madame be wrong?”
The Prophet gazed at him with profound curiosity, fascinated by the circular movement of the yellow dogskin finger, and by the inward murmur—so acutely mental—that accompanied it.
“Madame?” whispered the Prophet, drawing his cane chair noiselessly forward.
“Ah!” rejoined Malkiel, gazing upon him with an eye whose pupil seemed suddenly dilated to a most preternatural size. “Can she have been wrong all these many years?”
“What—what about?” murmured the Prophet.
Malkiel the Second leaned his matted head in his hands and replied, as if to himself—
“Can it be that a prophet should live in Berkeley Square—not Kimmins’s”—here he raised his head, and raked his companion with a glance that was almost fierce in its fervour of inquiry—“not Kimmins’s but—the Berkeley Square?”
CHAPTER IV
