“By twelve, sir.”
“I thought as much,” cried the Prophet, with slightly theatrical solicitude. “You sit up too late, Mr. Ferdinand.”
“I hope, sir, that I—”
“That’s what makes you so pale, Mr. Ferdinand, and delicate.”
“Delicate, sir!” cried Mr. Ferdinand, who had in fact been hopelessly robust from the cradle, totally incapable of acquiring even the most universal complaints, and, moreover, miraculously exempt from that well-recognised affliction of the members of his profession so widely known as “butler’s feet.”
“Yes,” said the Prophet, emphatically. “You should be in bed, thoroughly in bed, by a quarter to eleven. And Gustavus too! He is young, and the young can’t be too careful. Begin to-night, Mr. Ferdinand. I speak for your health’s sake, believe me.”
So saying the Prophet hurried away, leaving Mr. Ferdinand almost as firmly rooted to the Turkey carpet with surprise as if he had been woven into the pattern at birth, and never unpicked in later years.
At ten that evening the Prophet, having escaped early from his dinner on some extravagant plea of sudden illness or second gaiety, stood in the small and sober passage of the celebrated Tintack Club and inquired anxiously for Mr. Robert Green.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Green is upstairs in the smoke-room,” said the functionary whom the club grew under glass for the benefit of the members and their friends.
“Sam, show this gentleman to Mr. Green.”