There was another dead silence, and Madame, turning with patronising and heavy affability towards Lady Julia, added,—
“Your ladyship doubtless loves the Mouse—Mus Pulcherrimo—in spring as I do?”
The Prophet felt as if he were being pricked by thousands of red-hot needles, and the perspiration burst out in beads upon his forehead.
“I am not specially fond of mice in spring, or indeed at any season,” replied Lady Julia, with her slight, but very distinct and bell-like, cough.
“I said the Mouse, your ladyship,” returned Madame, feeding upon this titled acquaintance with her bulging black eyes, and pushing the kid boots well out from under her brown skirt. “I observed that the Mouse was peculiarly delicious in the season of love.”
“No mouse attracts me,” said Lady Julia, coughing again and raising her fine eyebrows slightly. “I should much prefer to pass the spring without the companionship of any mouse whatever.”
Both Madame and Mr. Sagittarius opened their lips to reply, but before they could eject a single word the door was opened by Mr. Ferdinand, who announced,—
“Sir Tiglath Butt.”
Mr. Sagittarius started violently and upset a vase of roses, the astronomer rolled into the room with a very red face, and Mr. Ferdinand added,—
“Dinner is served.”