Part 7 (1/2)

”I want to consult you,” he began, ”about my strange powers.”

Malkiel smiled with easy irony.

”Strange powers in Berkeley Square!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”The Berkeley Square! But go on, sir. What are they?”

”Having been led to study the stars,” continued the Prophet with more composure and growing earnestness, ”I felt myself moved to make a prophecy.”

”Weather forecast, I suppose,” remarked Malkiel, laconically.

”How did you know that?”

”The easiest kind, sir, the number one beginner's prophecy. Capricornus used to tell Madame what the weather'd be as soon as he could talk. But go on, sir, go on, I beg.”

The Prophet began to feel rather less like Isaiah, but he continued, with some determination,--

”If that had been all, I daresay I should have thought very little of the matter.”

”No, you wouldn't sir. Who thinks their first baby a little one? Can you tell me that?”

The Prophet considered the question for a moment. Then he answered,--

”Perhaps you're right.”

”Perhaps so,” rejoined Malkiel, indulgently. ”Well, sir, what was your next attempt--in the Berkeley Square?”

The Prophet's sensitive nature winced under the obvious irony of the interrogation, but either the ”creaming foam” had rendered him desperate, or he was to some extent steeled against the satire by the awful self-respect which had invaded him since Mrs. Merillia's accident.

In any case he answered firmly,--

”Malkiel the Second, in Berkeley Square I had a relation--an honoured grandmother.”

”You've the better of me there, sir. My parents and Madame's are all in Brompton Cemetery. Well, sir, you'd got an honoured grandmother in the Berkeley Square. What of it?”

”She was naturally elderly.”

”And you predicted her death and she pa.s.sed over. Very natural too, sir.

The number two beginner's prophecy. Why, Corona--”

But at this point the Prophet broke in.

”Excuse me,” he said in a scandalised voice, ”excuse me, Malkiel the Second, she did nothing of the kind. Whatever my faults may be--and they are many, I am aware--I--I--”

He was greatly moved.

”Take another sup of wine, sir. You need it,” said Malkiel.

The Prophet mechanically drank once more, grasping the edge of the table for support in the endurance of the four-bob ecstasy.

”You prophesied it and she didn't pa.s.s over, sir,” continued Malkiel, with unaffected sympathy. ”I understand the blow. It's cruel hard when a prophecy goes wrong. Why, even Madame--”