“Take another sup of wine, sir. You need it,” said Malkiel.
The Prophet mechanically drank once more, grasping the edge of the table for support in the endurance of the four-bob ecstasy.
“You prophesied it and she didn’t pass over, sir,” continued Malkiel, with unaffected sympathy. “I understand the blow. It’s cruel hard when a prophecy goes wrong. Why, even Madame—”
But at this point the Prophet broke in.
“You are mistaken,” he cried. “Utterly mistaken.”
Malkiel the Second drew himself up with dignity.
“In that case I will say no more,” he remarked, pursing up his lengthy mouth and assuming a cast-iron attitude.
The Prophet perceived his mistake.
“Forgive me,” he exclaimed. “It is my fault.”
“Oh, no, sir. Not at all,” rejoined Malkiel, with icy formality. “Pray let the fault be mine.”