"Stop, Gustavus!" said the Prophet.
Gustavus stopped. The bell rang again.
"Gustavus," said the Prophet, "if that is a visitor I am not at home.
Mrs. Merillia is not at home either."
It was by this time between one and two in the morning.
"Not at home, sir. Yes, sir."
The Prophet concealed himself near the hat-rack, and Gustavus went
softly to the door and opened it.
"Not at home, ma'am," the Prophet heard him say, formally.
"What d'you mean, young man?" replied the powerful voice of Madame.
"Where is my husband?"
"Ma'am?"
"Where, I say, is my husband?"
"I couldn't say, I'm sure, ma'am. But Mrs. Merillia and Mr. Vivian are
not at home."
"Then all I can say is they ought to be in at this time of night. Permit
me to pass. Are you aware that Mr. Vivian has invited me to spend the
night here? _Noctes ambrosianes_."
"But, ma'am, Mr. Viv--"
"That'll do. If I have any more of your impertinence I'll make you
repent of it. You are evidently not aware who I am."
The Prophet, by the hat-rack, did not fail to hear a new note in the
deep contralto of Madame, a note of triumph, a trumpet note of profound
conceit. His heart sank before this determined music, and it sank
even lower towards his pumps when, a moment later, he found himself
confronted by the lady, wrapped closely in the rabbit-skins, and
absolutely bulging with vanity and self-appreciation.
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