Sir Tiglath had enough chivalry to stop, and Lady Enid once again chipped in.
“But, really, I’m almost sure Malkiel is a—”
She caught the Prophet’s eye, as Mrs. Merillia had, and paused. He turned to the astronomer.
“But how can a company make itself into a prophet?” he asked.
“Young man, you talk idly! What are companies formed for if not to make profits?” retorted Sir Tiglath. “Every one is a company nowadays. Don’t you know that? Murchison, the famous writer of novels, is a company. Jeremy, the actor-manager, is a company. So is Bynion the quack doctor, and the Rev. Mr. Kinnimer who supplies tracts to the upper classes, and Upton the artist, whose pictures make tours like Sarah Bernhardt, and Watkins, whose philosophy sells more than Tupper’s, and Caroline Jingo, who writes war poems and patriotic odes. If you were to invite these supposed seven persons to dinner, and all of them came, you would have to lay covers for at least fifty scoundrels. Oh-h-h-h!”
“Well, but how are you sure that—ahem—the Almanac person is also plural, Sir Tiglath?” inquired Mrs. Merillia.
“Because I sought him with the firm intention of assault and battery for five-and-forty years,” returned the astronomer. “And only gave up my Christian quest when I was assured, on excellent authority, that he was a company, and had originally been formed in the United States for the making of money and the defiance of the heavenly bodies. May bulls and bears destroy him!”
“Well, it’s very odd,” said Lady Enid. “Very odd indeed.”
As she spoke she glanced at the Prophet and met his eyes. There are moments when the mere expression in another person’s eyes seems to shout a request at one. The expression in the Prophet’s eyes performed this feat at this moment, with such abrupt vehemence, that Lady Enid felt almost deafened. She leaned back in her chair, as if avoiding a missile, and exclaimed,—
“Of course! And I never guessed it!”