“Of course, silly girl. It is written Beau, and you can pronounce it as you would pronounce a bow of ribbon.”
Fancy said no more, though it was easy to see that she was much shaken by this circumstance. But she could never afterwards be induced to utter her favourite’s name. She was physically unable to speak the word so strangely, so almost impiously, spelt. This she declared with tears. Persuasion and argument were unavailing. Henceforth Beau was always called by her “the dog,” and it was obvious that, had she been led out to the stake, she must have burned rather than save herself by a pronouncing of the combination of letters by which she had been so long deceived.
Such an inflexible mind had Mrs. Fancy, to whom the Prophet now applied himself with gestures almost Sinaic.
She was dressed in mouse-coloured grenadine, and was seated in a small chamber opening out of Mrs. Merillia’s bedroom, engaged in what she called “plain tatting.”
“Fancy,” said the Prophet, entering and closing the door carefully, “you know me well.”
“From the bottle, sir,” she answered, darting the bone implements in and out.
“Have you ever thought—has it ever occurred to you—”
“I can’t say it has, sir,” Fancy replied, with the weak decision peculiar to her.
She was ever prone thus to answer questions before they were fully asked, or could be properly understood by her, and from such premature decisions as she hastened to give she could never afterwards be persuaded to retreat. Knowing this the Prophet said rapidly,—
“Fancy, if a man finds out that he is a prophet what ought he to do?”