“His name! Nomen volens!” added Madame.
“That,” said the Prophet, “I prefer not to say at present.”
“But why should he desire to—?”
“Because you are a prophet.”
“There, Jupiter!” cried Madame, with flushed spitefulness. “What have I always said! All prophets are what they call outsiders—hors d’oeuvres, neither more nor less.”
“I know, my love, I know. But how should this gent recognise me for a prophet? I’m sure my dress, my manner, are those of an outside broker, as I have often told you, Sophy. How—”
“The gentleman has not yet recognised you,” said the Prophet. “At the moment he believes you to be an American syndicate.”
“Thank mercy!” ejaculated Mr. Sagittarius.
“But one can never tell,” added the Prophet. “He might find out.”
“Nonsense!” cried Madame at this juncture. “We might quite well have gone to the square yesterday as I always suspected. But you are so timid, Jupiter. Timeo Dan—Dan—well, Dan something or other, as Virgil so truly says.”