“I do, I do,” cried the Prophet, passionately. “Yours has been the best, the sweetest life the world has ever known!”
“Well, I don’t wish to imply—”
“But I do, grannie, I do. Can Fancy leave us for a moment?”
“Certainly. Fancy, you can go to your tatting.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr Hennessey has something to explain to me.”
“Oh, ma’am, the houses that have been broke up by explainings!”
And with this, as the Prophet thought, appallingly appropriate exclamation, Mrs. Fancy hurried feverishly from the room.
“Now what is the question you wish to ask me, Hennessey?” said Mrs. Merillia, with a soft dignity.
“There are—one moment—there are eight questions, grannie,” responded the Prophet, shrinking visibly before the dread necessity by which he found himself confronted.