Indeed the situation of the library seemed about to be accurately
reversed in the parlour of Jellybrand's.

The young librarian assisted the cork to emerge phlegmatically from the
neck of the second bottle of champagne, mechanically smacking his lips
the while.

"Now pour, and leave us, Frederick Smith."

The young librarian helped the fatigued-looking wine into the two
glasses, where it lay as if thoroughly exhausted by the effort of
getting there, and then languidly left the parlour, turning his bulging
head over his shoulder to indulge in a pathetic _oeillade_ ere he
vanished.

The Prophet watched him go.

"Close the door, Frederick Smith," cried Malkiel, in a meaning manner.

The Prophet blushed a guilty red, and the young librarian obeyed with a
bang.

"And now, sir, I must request you to take a solemn pledge in this
vintage," said Malkiel, placing one of the tumblers in the Prophet's
trembling hand.

"Really," said the Prophet, "I am not at all thirsty."

"Why should you be, sir? What has that got to do with it?" retorted