“Now pour, and leave us, Frederick Smith.”
The young librarian helped the fatigued-looking wine into the two glasses, where it lay as if thoroughly exhausted by the effort of getting there, and then languidly left the parlour, turning his bulging head over his shoulder to indulge in a pathetic oeillade ere he vanished.
The Prophet watched him go.
“Close the door, Frederick Smith,” cried Malkiel, in a meaning manner.
The Prophet blushed a guilty red, and the young librarian obeyed with a bang.
“And now, sir, I must request you to take a solemn pledge in this vintage,” said Malkiel, placing one of the tumblers in the Prophet’s trembling hand.
“Really,” said the Prophet, “I am not at all thirsty.”
“Why should you be, sir? What has that got to do with it?” retorted Malkiel. “Lift your glass, sir.”
The Prophet obeyed.
“And now take this pledge—that, till the last day—”