Meanwhile the Prophet was closeted with the two kids.
"Pray sit down," he said, very nervously, and smiling forcibly. "Pray
sit down, my dears."
The kids obeyed with aplomb, keeping their large and strained eyes fixed
upon the Prophet.
"Is it Coronus and Capricorna?" continued the Prophet, with an effort
after blithe familiarity. "Is it?"
"No," piped the little boy. "It isn't Coronus and Capricorna."
A marvellous sensation of relief invaded the Prophet.
"Thank Heaven!" he ejaculated in a sigh. "I thought it must be."
"It's Corona and Capricornus," continued the little boy. "And we've
brought you a letter from pater familias."
"And mater familiaris," added the little girl.
"Milias, Corona," corrected the little boy. "Here it is, Mr. Vivian,"
he added, drawing a large missive from the breast of his blue-and-white
sailor's blouse. "Pater and mater familias couldn't bring it themselves,
because he said it wasn't safe for him to come, and she's lying down ill
at what you sent to her. It wasn't kind of you, was it?"
So saying, he handed the missive to the Prophet, who took it anxiously.
"Would you like some cake, my lit--I mean, my dears, while I read this?"
"No, thank you.
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