“Hennessey! Hennessey!”
The Prophet bit his lip and went at once into her room.
Mrs. Merillia looked simply charming in bed, with her long and elegant head shaded by a beautiful muslin helmet trimmed with lace, and a delicious embroidered wrapper round her shoulders. The Prophet stood beside her, shading the candle-flame with his hand.
“Well, grannie, dear,” he said, “what is it? You ought to be asleep.”
“I never sleep before twelve. Have you had a pleasant dinner?”
“Very. Stanyer Phelps, the American, was there and very witty. And we had a marvellous supreme de volaille. Everybody asked after you.”
Mrs. Merillia nodded, like an accustomed queen who receives her due. She knew very well that she was the most popular old woman in London, knew it too well to think about it.
“Well, good-night, grannie.”
The Prophet bent to kiss her, his heart filled with compunction at the thought of the promise he was about to break. It seemed to him almost more than sacrilegious to make of this dear and honoured ornament of old age a vehicle for the satisfaction of the vulgar ambitions and disagreeable curiosity of the couple who dwelt beside the Mouse.
“Good-night, my dear boy.”