“A pair of persons, sir. Yes, sir.”
“They should arrive towards five o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I should not be home by that time you will show them very quietly into my library—not the drawing-room. Mrs. Merillia is not at present equal to receiving ordinary guests.”
The Prophet meant extraordinary, but he preferred to put it the other way.
“Yes, sir. What name, sir?”
“Mr. and Mrs.—that is, Madame Sagittarius. That will do.”
Gustavus hastened to the servants’ hall to discuss the situation, while the Prophet stood re-reading the telegram with an expression of shattered dismay. Not for at least five minutes did he recover himself sufficiently to remember his appointment with Lady Enid, and, when at length he set forth to Hill Street, he was so painfully preoccupied that he walked three times completely round the square before he discovered the outlet into that fashionable thoroughfare.
When he reached the dark green mansion of Lady Enid’s worthy father, the Marquis of Glome, and had applied the bronze demon that served as a knocker four separate times to the door, he was still so lost in thought that he started violently on the appearance of the Scotch retainer at the portal, and behaved for a moment as if he were considering which of two courses he should pursue: i.e., whether he should clamber frantically into the seclusion of the area, or take boldly to the open street. Before he could do either M’Allister, the retainer, had magnetised him into the hall, relieved him of his hat—almost with the seductive adroitness of a Drury Lane thief—and drawn him down a tartan passage into a very sensible-looking boudoir, in which Lady Enid was sitting by a wood fire with a very tall and lusty young man.
“Mr. Hennessey Vivian!”