“Don’t!” at last cried a young voice. “Don’t, Sir Tiglath!”
A peal of laughter followed the remark, of that laughter which is loud and yet entirely without the saving grace of merriment, a mere sudden demonstration of hysteria.
“Oh, Sir Tiglath—don’t!”
A second laugh joined the first and rang up with it, older, but also hysterical—Mrs. Merillia’s.
“No, no—please don’t, Sir Tig—Tig—”
A third laugh burst into the ring, seeming to complete it fatally—the Prophet’s.
“Sir Tiglath—for Heaven’s sake—don’t!”
The adjuration came from a trio of choked voices, and might have given pause even to a descending lift or other inflexible and blind machine.
But still the astronomer grew steadily more gigantic in person and more like the god of wine in hue. The three voices failed, and the terrible, united laughter was just upon the point of breaking forth again when a diversion occurred. The door of the drawing-room was softly opened, and Mrs. Fancy Quinglet appeared upon the threshold, holding in her hands an ice-wool shawl for the comfort of her mistress. It chanced that as the phenomenon of the astronomer was based upon a large elbow chair exactly facing the door she was instantly and fully confronted by it. She did not drop the shawl, as any ordinary maid would most probably have done. Mrs. Fancy was not of that kidney. She did not even turn tail, or give a month’s warning or a scream. She was of those women who, when they meet the inevitable, instinctively seem to recognise that it demands courage as a manner and truth as a greeting. She, therefore, stared straight at Sir Tiglath—much as she stared at Mrs. Merillia when she was about to arrange that lady’s wig for an assembly—and remarked in a decisive, though very respectful, tone of voice,—
“The gentleman’s about to burst, ma’am. I can’t speak different nor mean other.”