So saying, and with an air of one retiring from business upon a well-earned competence, Madame Sagittarius lay back in her chair, settled her bonnet-strings, flicked a crumb from the football of violets that decorated her left side, and, extending her kid boots towards the cheerful blaze that came from the fire, fell with a sigh into a comfortable meditation. Mr. Sagittarius, on the other hand, assumed a look of rather hectoring authority, and was about to utter what the Prophet had very little doubt was a command when there came a gentle tap to the door.
“Come in,” said the Prophet.
He thought he had spoken in his ordinary voice. In reality he had merely uttered a very small whisper. The tap was repeated.
“Louder, sir, louder!” said Mr. Sagittarius, encouragingly.
“Come in!” shrieked the Prophet.
Mr. Ferdinand appeared, looking more like the elderly spinster lady when confronted with the corporal in the Life Guards than ever.
“If you please, sir, I was to tell you that Lady Enid Thistle is with Mrs. Merillia taking tea. Mrs. Merillia thought you would wish to know.”
Madame Sagittarius took the kid boots from the blaze on hearing this aristocratic name. Mr. Sagittarius assumed a look of reverence, and the Prophet realised, more acutely than ever, that even well-born young women can be inquisitive.
“Very well,” he said. “Say I’ll—I’ll”—he succeeded in making his voice sound absolutely firm—“I’ll come in a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”