To this pathetic heart-cry Mr. Sagittarius made a very prolonged answer. The Prophet knew it was prolonged because Mr. Sagittarius always whispered in such a manner as to tickle the nape of his neck. But he could not hear anything except a sound like steam escaping from a small pipe. The steam went on escaping until the brougham passed through a gate, rolled down a declivity, and drew up before an enormous mansion whose windows blazed with light.
“Is this the Zoological Gardens?” inquired Madame in a stern voice. “Is this the habitation of the woman Bridgeman?”
“I suppose this is Zoological House,” replied the Prophet, sliding decorously off Madame’s left knee in preparation for descent.
“My darling! my love!” said Mr. Sagittarius. “I swear upon the infant head of our Capricornus that Mrs. Bridgeman and I are—”
“Enough!” cried Madame. “Jam satus! Be sure that I will inquire into this matter.”
The carriage door was opened and, with some struggling, the Prophet and his two valued friends emerged and speedily found themselves in a very large hall, which was nearly full of very large powdered footmen. In the distance there was the sound of united frivolities, a band of twenty guitars thrumming a wilful seguidilla. Roses bloomed on every side, and beyond the hall they beheld a vision of illuminated vistas, down which vague figures came and went.
Evidently when Mrs. Bridgeman let herself go she let herself go thoroughly.
Mr. Sagittarius gazed about him with awe-struck amazement, but Madame was equal to the occasion. She cast the rabbit-skins imperially to a neighbouring flunkey, arranged her hair and fichu before a glass, kicked out her skirt with the heel of one of the kid boots, nipped the green chiffon into prominence with decisive fingers, and then, turning to the Prophet with all the majesty of a suburban empress, said in a powerful voice,—
“Step forward, I beg. J’ai pret.”
The Prophet, thus encouraged, stepped forward towards an aperture that on ordinary days contained a door, but that now contained a stout elderly lady, with henna-dyed hair, a powdered face, black eyebrows and a yellow gown, on which rested a large number of jewelled ornaments that looked like small bombs. At this lady’s elbow stood a footman with an exceedingly powerful bass voice, who shouted the names of approaching guests in a manner so uncompromising as to be terrific. Each time he so shouted the stout lady first started and then smiled, the two operations succeeding one another with almost inconceivable rapidity and violence.