The Prophet abandoned Mr. and Madame Sagittarius to their fate,
thankful, indeed, to be rid for a moment of their prophetic importunity.
Following the gasped directions of Mrs. Bridgeman, he made towards the
guitars, threading a number of drawing-rooms, and passing by the doors
of various mysterious chambers which were carefully curtained off in
a most secret manner. Here and there he saw groups of people--men in
extraordinary coats and with touzled masses of hair, women in gowns made
of the cheapest materials and cut in the most impossible fashions. Some
wore convolvulus on their heads, ivy-leaves, trailing fuchsia, or sprigs
of plants known only to suburban haberdashers; others appeared boldly
in caps of the pork-pie order, adorned with cherry-coloured streamers,
clumps of feathers that had never seen a bird, bunches of shining
fruits, or coins that looked as if they had just emerged from the
seclusion of the poor-box. Thread gloves abounded, and were mostly in
what saleswomen call "the loud shades"--bright scarlet, marigold yellow,
grass green or acute magenta. Mittens, too, were visible covered with
cabalistic inscriptions in glittering beadwork.
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