As he spoke he threw his black overcoat wide open, seated himself on the edge of one of the chairs in a dignified attitude, and crossed his feet—which were not innocent of spats—one over the other.
The Prophet was resolved to dare all, and he, therefore, answered boldly,—
“Malkiel the Second, I wish to speak to you as one prophet to another.”
At this remark Malkiel started violently, and darted a searching glance from beneath his blonde eyebrows at Hennessey.
“Do you live in the Berkeley Square, sir,” he said, “and claim to be a prophet?”
“I do,” said Hennessey, with modest determination.
Malkiel smiled, a long and wreathed smile that was full of luscious melancholy and tragic sweetness.
“The assumption seems rather ridiculous—forgive me,” he exclaimed. “The Berkeley Square! Whatever would Madame say?”
“Madame?” said the Prophet, inquiringly.
“Madame Malkiel, or Madame Sagittarius, as she always passes.”