"And you predicted her death and she passed 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 pass over, sir," continued Malkiel,
with unaffected sympathy. "I understand the blow. It's cruel hard when a
prophecy goes wrong. Why, even Madame--"

But at this point the Prophet broke in.

"You are mistaken," he cried. "Utterly mistaken."

Malkiel the Second drew himself up with dignity.

"In that case I will say no more," he remarked, pursing up his lengthy
mouth and assuming a cast-iron attitude.

The Prophet perceived his mistake.