“You had better take death off the door now, Mr. Ferdinand. I feel more myself. Please thank her ladyship and tell her so.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nine telegrams an hour!” repeated Lady Enid. “Mr. Vivian, would you mind just seeing me as far as Hill Street? Bob has to go to Tattersall’s.”
“Have I, Niddy?” asked Mr. Green, with evident surprise.
“Yes, to pick up a polo pony. Don’t you recollect?”
“A polo pony, was it? By Jove!”
“I will come with pleasure,” said the poor Prophet, who felt fit only to lie down quietly in his grave. “If you don’t mind being left, grannie?”
Mrs. Merillia was looking pleased.
“No, no. Go with Lady Enid, my dear boy. If any telegrams come shall I open—”
“No,” cried the Prophet, with sudden fierce energy. “For mercy’s sake—I mean, grannie, dear; that none will come. If they should”—his ordinary gentle eyes flamed almost furiously—“Mr. Ferdinand is to burn them unread—yes, to ashes. I will tell him.” And he escorted Lady Enid tumultuously downstairs, missing his footing at every second step.