Merillia's delicate voice cried out from behind her
shut door,--
"Hennessey! Hennessey!"
The Prophet bit his lip and went at once into her room.
Mrs. Merillia looked simply charming in bed, with her long and elegant
head shaded by a beautiful muslin helmet trimmed with lace, and a
delicious embroidered wrapper round her shoulders. The Prophet stood
beside her, shading the candle-flame with his hand.
"Well, grannie, dear," he said, "what is it? You ought to be asleep."
"I never sleep before twelve. Have you had a pleasant dinner?"
"Very. Stanyer Phelps, the American, was there and very witty. And we
had a marvellous _supreme de volaille_. Everybody asked after you."
Mrs. Merillia nodded, like an accustomed queen who receives her due. She
knew very well that she was the most popular old woman in London, knew
it too well to think about it.
"Well, good-night, grannie."
The Prophet bent to kiss her, his heart filled with compunction at the
thought of the promise he was about to break. It seemed to him almost
more than sacrilegious to make of this dear and honoured ornament of
old age a vehicle for the satisfaction of the vulgar ambitions and
disagreeable curiosity of the couple who dwelt beside the Mouse.
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