“Then your Capricor—that is your son—will not carry on the—”
“Capricornus a prophet, sir!” cried Malkiel. “Not if Madame and I know it. No, sir, Capricornus is to be an architect.”
As Malkiel pronounced the last words he flung his black overcoat wide open with an ample gesture, thrust one hand into his breast, and assumed the fixed and far-seeing gaze of a man in a cabinet photograph. He seemed lost to his surroundings, and rapt by some great vision of enchanted architects, busy in drawing plans of the magic buildings of the future ages. The Prophet felt that it would be impious to disturb him. Malkiel’s reverie was long, and indeed the two prophets might well have been sitting in Jellybrand’s parlour now, had not a violent sneeze called for the pink assistance of the flight of storks, and brought the sneezer down to the level of ordinary humanity.
“Yes, sir—I give you my word Capricornus is to be an architect,” repeated Malkiel. “What do you say to that?”
“Is it—is it really a better profession than that of prophecy?” asked the Prophet, rather nervously.
Malkiel smiled mournfully.
“Sir, it may not be more lucrative, but it is more select. Madame will not mix with prophets, but she has a ‘day,’ sir, on the banks of the Mouse, and she has gathered around her a very pleasant and select little circle.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, sir. Architects and their wives. You understand?”
“Quite,” rejoined the Prophet, “quite.”