Mr. and Madame Sagittarius, completely overlooked in the throng, elbowed, trampled upon, jogged from behind and prodded from before, gazed with a passion of bitter envy at their worshipped rivals, who were set in the full blaze of success, while they languished in the outer darkness of anonymous obscurity.
“O miseris hominum men—don’t set your feet on me, sir, if you please!” cried Madame. “O pectorae caec—ma’am, I beg you to take your elbow from my throat this minute!”
But even her powerful and indignant organ was lost in the hubbub that mingled with the wild music of the guitars, to which was now added the tinkle of bells and the vehement click of a round dozen of castanets, marking the bull-fighting rhythm of a new air called “The Espada’s Return to Madrid.”
“Jupiter!” she gurgled. “I shall be suff—”
“Mr. Amos Towle!” roared the footman savagely.
“The great medium from the Wick!”
“Towle the seer!”
“Amos Towle, the famous spiritualist!”
“Mr. Towle who materialises!”
“The celebrated Towle!”