“Oh, I beg pardon, sir. And if any telegrams—”
“There will not be any. I am now going to answer the telegrams in person.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come along, my children,” cried the Prophet, putting his head into the library.
“Not your children, if you please, Mr. Vivian,” replied the little boy. “Corona, come on.”
“How do we go, my dears?” asked the Prophet, with an attempt at gaiety, and endeavouring to ignore the prostrated demeanour of Mr. Ferdinand, who was in waiting to open the hall door.
“By the purple ‘bus as far as the Pork Butcher’s Rest,” piped the little boy—(at this point Mr. Ferdinand could not refrain from a slight exclamation)—“then we take the train to the Mouse, Mouse, Mouse.”
“Mus, Mus, Mus,” chanted the little girl.
As Mr. Ferdinand was unable to open the door, paralysis having apparently supervened, the Prophet did so, and the cheerful little party emerged upon the step to find Lady Enid Thistle in the very act of pressing the electric bell. When she beheld the vivacious trio, all agog for their morning’s expedition, come thus suddenly upon her, she cried out musically,—
“Why, where are you off to?”