“What old lady?” stammered the Prophet, beginning to perspire.
“The old lady who’s got ankles, your honoured grandmother?”
“On the twentieth of this month. But—”
“At what time?”
“Six in the morning. But—”
“Under what star?”
“Saturn. But—”
“That’s lucky, isn’t it, Jupiter?” said Madame, in an increasingly business-like manner. “That brings her into touch with the Camelopard—doesn’t it?”
“Into very close touch indeed, my dear, and also with the bull. He goes right to her, as you may say.”
“I cannot conceivably permit—” began the Prophet in much agitation.