“But—” they cried simultaneously.
“And you must share his night watch.”
“But, my darling—”
“Or I will,” cried Madame. “Which is it to be?”
“Mr. Sagittarius!” exclaimed the Prophet.
“Very well,” said Madame. “Let mine be the weary task to wait and watch at home. Fata feminus. The mystery of the dressed Crab must be unveiled. Should this mysterious visitant again vouchsafe a prophetic message, a practical prophet must be at hand to receive it. Jupiter, this gentleman is not practical. This report”—she struck the paper on which the Prophet had dotted down his notes—“is badly written. The cycloidal curve might have been made by a Board School child. The deductions drawn—deductio ad absurdibus—reveal no talent, none of the prophetic feu de joie at all. But this mystery of the dressed Crab may mean much. Jupiter, you will accompany this gentleman back to London and you will assist him practically at the telescope to-night.”
“Very well, my love. I will risk the personal danger, for your and the children’s—”
“But—but really—” began the Prophet. “I am very sorry, but—”
“Madame has spoken, sir,” said Mr. Sagittarius, very solemnly.
“I know she has. But—yes, I know there are no buts in your dictionary, Madame, I know there aren’t—but I have an engagement to-night that I have sworn—”