"Which avenue is that, Sir Tiglath?" asked the Prophet, with a rather
inadequate assumption of innocence.

"The Avenue in which one beholds the perfidy darting into hidden places,
young man, in which the defenders of foolish virgins are buffeted and
browbeaten by counter-jumpers with craniums as big as the great nebula
of Orion. The avenue named after a crumbled philanthropist, who could
walk, sheeted, through the atrocious night could his sacred dust awake
to the abominations that are perpetrated under the protection of his
shadow. Let dragons lay it waste like the highways of Babylon."

He gathered up a crumpet, and blinked at Lady Enid, who was airily
sipping her tea with a slightly detached air of calm and maidenly
dignity.

"I think Sir Tiglath must be describing Shaftesbury Avenue," remarked
Mrs. Merillia, rather mischievously.

"Oh, really," stammered the Prophet, "I had no idea that it was such an
evil neighbourhood."

"Where is Shaftesbury Avenue?" asked Lady Enid, gently folding a
fragment of thin bread and butter and nibbling it with her pretty mouth.

Sir Tiglath elevated his hands and rolled his eyes.

"Where partridges are to be found in January, oh-h-h-h!" was his very
unexpected reply.