The meaning of Mr. Ferdinand’s vulgar and misleading slang suddenly dawned on the Prophet. He cast a look of very grave rebuke on Mr. Ferdinand, then, walking up to the little boy and girl he said in his most ingratiating manner,—
“Well, my little ones, what can I do for you?”
“Not so little, if you please, Mr. Vivian,” replied the boy in a piping, but very self-possessed voice. “Can we see you in private for a moment?”
“If you please, Mr. Vivian,” added the little girl. “Si sit prudentium.”
“Dentia, Corona,” corrected the little boy.
The Prophet turned white to the very lips.
“Certainly, certainly,” he said in a violently furtive manner. “Come this way, my children. Mr. Ferdinand, if Mrs. Merillia should inquire for me, you will say that I’m busy writing—no, no, just busy—very busy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not to be disturbed. This way, my little ones.”
“Not so little, Mr. Vivian,” piped again the small boy, trotting obediently, with his sister, into the Prophet’s library, the door of which was immediately closed behind them.