“A young female who informed the old astronomer that your husband and an elderly female named Mrs. Bridgeman had for a long while been carrying on astronomical investigations together—”
“Carrying on together!” vociferated Madame. “Jupiter!”
“And that they had come to the conclusion that there was probably oxygen in certain of the holy fixed stars. Oxygen, so the elderly female—”
“Oxygen in an elderly female!” cried Madame, in the greatest excitement. “Jupiter, is this true?”
Mr. Sagittarius was about to bring forward a flat denial when the Prophet, leaning behind the terrified back of Lady Julia, hissed in his ear,—
“Say yes, or he’ll find out who you really are!”
“Yes,” cried Mr. Sagittarius, in a catapultic manner.
Madame began to show elaborate symptoms of preparation for a large-sized fit of hysterics. She caught her breath five or six times running in a resounding manner, heaved her bosom beneath the green chiffon and coffee-coloured lace, and tore feebly with both hands at a large medallion brooch that was doing sentry duty near her throat.
“Pray, pray, Madame,” exclaimed the Prophet, who was now near his wits’ end. “Pray—”
“How can I pray at table, sir?” she retorted, suddenly showing fight. “You forget yourself.”