The Prophet shut his eyes as one who refuses to behold sacrilege.
“You will trace the cycloidal curve of the planets—can you do that?”
The Prophet nodded.
“As it affects her birthday, the twentieth. Should the lynx be near her—”
“No, no!” cried the Prophet. “It shall not be!”
“Well, you’ll have to find that out and keep an eye to it. But should it be, you will commit to paper what result its presence is likely to produce to her, and work the whole thing out clearly for myself and Madame on paper—in prophetic form, of course—so that we receive it by—what post shall I say, my dear?”
“First post, Jupiter.”
“First post on—what day is the twentieth?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Prophet, helplessly.
“A Thursday,” said Madame. “Capricornus’s day for chronic sections.”