“Cautious, Sophronia, only cautious, for your and the children’s sakes!”
“I call a man who’s afraid even when he’s passing everywhere as an American syndicate a cowardly custard,” rejoined Madame, who appeared to be suffering under that peculiar form of flushed irritability which is apt to follow on heavy thought, indulged in to excess in a recumbent position during the daytime. “There, that’s settled. So now let us get to business. Kindly hand me your prophecy of last night, Mr. Vivian.”
The Prophet drew from a breast pocket a sheet or two of notepaper, on which he had dotted down, in prophetic form, the events of the night before. Madame received it and continued,—
“Before perusing this report, Mr. Vivian, I should wish to be made acquainted with those particulars.”
“Which ones?” said the Prophet.
“Of your grandmother’s career.”
“Oh, I—”
“Let us take them in order, please, and proceed parri passo. When was the old lady removed from the bottle?”
“Never,” replied the Prophet, firmly. “Never.”
An expression of incredulous amazement decorated the obstreperous features of Madame.