“I am grieved,” said the Prophet, with a species of intoxicated obstinacy—the guitars seemed to be playing inside his brain and the flute piping in the small of his back,—“to decline, but I cannot contend physically with Sir Tiglath, a man whom I reverence, in the cloak-room of a total stranger.”
“I don’t ask you to contend physically.”
“Nothing but personal violence would keep Sir Tiglath from coming in.”
“Really! Then what’s to be done?”
She pursed up her sensible lips and drew down her sensible eyebrows.
“I know!” she cried, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll masquerade to-night as myself.”
“As yourself?”
“Yes. All these dear silly people here think that I’ve got an astral body.”
“What’s that?”
“A sort of floating business—a business that you can set floating.”