“You know it, sir?”
“Not personally.”
“But by repute, of course?”
“No doubt, no doubt,” stammered the Prophet, who had in fact never before heard of this celebrated flood.
“That poor governess, sir, last August—you recollect?”
“Ah, indeed!” murmured the Prophet, a trifle incoherently.
“And then the mad undertaker in the autumn,” continued Malkiel, with conscious pride; “he floated past our very door.”
“Did he really?”
“Singing his swan song, no doubt, poor feller, as Madame said after she read about it in the paper. There were the grocer’s twins as well, just lately. But they will be fresh in your memory.”
Before the Prophet had time to state whether this was so or not Malkiel proceeded,—