“Then why was Samuel Smiles born?”
“What, my love?”
“Why, I say? Where is the use of effort? Of what benefit was Plato’s existence to the republic? Of what assistance has the great Tracy Tupper been if men must still, despite all his proverbs, remain what they are? O curum hominibus! O imitatori! Servus pecum!”
At this point the voice of Mr. Ferdinand remarked in the small of the Prophet’s back,—
“Shall I set down the tea on the mat, sir, or—”
The Prophet bounded into the library, tingling in every vein. His panther-like entrance evidently took the two conversationalists aback, for Malkiel the Second, who had been plaintively promenading about the room, still on his toes according to the behest of Mr. Ferdinand, sat down violently on a small table as if he had been shot, while the contralto voice, which had been sitting on a saddle-back chair by the hearth, simultaneously bounced up; both these proceedings being carried out with the frantic promptitude characteristic of complete and unhesitating terror.
“I beg your pardon!” said the Prophet. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
Malkiel the Second leaned back, the contralto voice leaned forward, and both breathed convulsively.
“I really must apologise,” continued the Prophet. “I fear I have startled you.”
His guests swallowed nothing simultaneously and mechanically drew out their handkerchiefs. Then Malkiel feebly got up and the contralto voice feebly sank down again.