He remained with his eyes fixed and his lips parted, and Harry did not quite know what to do next. But he summoned courage to rise and say that he hoped his father would have come home by now and as he had not seen him yet, he thought he would go.
Filial affection might surely be taken as a valid excuse for withdrawal. And yet, having had no experience of the etiquette due to prophets when the orgy of vaticination is upon them, he was not quite comfortable on the question of being scathed. There was no need for fear; Sheikh Burrachee was too rapt to heed his presence or absence. He heard not his voice, and knew not when he crossed the room and closed the door softly behind him. He found Trix in the hall looking out for him.
“Well?” she cried.
“Oh, my prophetic uncle!” ejaculated Harry.
“That is a mis-quotation.”
“It is not a quotation at all; it is an exclamation, and a very natural one under the circumstances.”
“Has he been telling your fortune?” asked Beatrice, her large eyes expanding with the interest which is begotten of mystery.
“Not exactly,” replied Harry; “except that he hinted something about the propriety of my choosing the profession of a Bedouin, and, I suppose, making a fortune by robbing caravans. But he told the misfortunes of other people with a vengeance. The Mohammedans are going to turn the Christians out of Asia and Africa everywhere.”
“Good gracious, Harry! Why, papa’s a director of the Great Transit Bank, and all our money is in it, and it does all its business in the East.”
“By Jove! Let us hope the prophet doesn’t know, then. But, upon my word, he looked like seeing into futurity. At least, I could not make out what else he was looking at.”