“Being silly.  All the people who know me as Miss Partridge know I’m an absurd person in spite of my looks.  I’ve proved it to them by my actions.  I’ve begun at once before they could have time to judge by my appearance.  I’ve told them instantly that I’m a Christian Scientist, and a believer in the value of tight-lacing and in ghosts, an anti-vaccinator, a Fabian, a member of ‘The Masculine Club,’ a ‘spirit,’ a friend of Mahatmas, an intimate of the ‘Rational Dress’ set—­you know, who wear things like half inflated balloons in Piccadilly—­a vegetarian, a follower of Mrs. Besant, a drinker of hop bitters and Zozophine, a Jacobite, a hater of false hair and of all collective action to stamp out hydrophobia, a stamp-collector, an engager of lady-helps instead of servants, an amateur reciter and skirt dancer, an owner of a lock of Paderewski’s hair—­torn fresh from the head personally at a concert—­an admirer of George Bernard Shaw as a thinker but a hater of him as a humourist, a rationalist and reader of Punch, an atheist and table-turner, a friend of all who think that women don’t desire to be slaves, a homoeopathist and Sandowite, an enemy of babies—­as if all women didn’t worship them!—­a lover of cats—­as if all women didn’t hate one another!—­a—­”

“One—­one moment!” gasped the Prophet at this juncture.  “Many of these views are surely in opposition, in direct opposition to each other.”

“I daresay.  That doesn’t matter in the least to a real silly woman such as I am.”

“And then you said that you proved by your actions instantly that—­”

“So I did.  I caught up a happy dog in the street, cried over its agony, unmuzzled it and allowed it to add its little contribution to the joy of life by mangling a passing archdeacon.  I sat on the floor and handled snakes.  I wore my hair parted on one side and smoked a cigarette in a chiffon gown.  I refused food in a public restaurant because it had been cooked by a Frenchman.  I—­”

“Enough!  Enough!” cried the Prophet.  “I understand.  You forced Miss Partridge’s acquaintances to believe in Miss Partridge’s folly.  But who were these acquaintances?”

“It would take me hours to tell you.  First there was—­”

“I really have to go at five.”

“Then I’ll finish about Sir Tiglath.  He’s an utterly sensible old man, and so is different from all other old men, for you know human folly increases enormously with age.  Isn’t that lovely?  Now, Mr. Vivian, Sir Tiglath admires me.”

“Ah!”

“I know.  You think that proves him the contrary of what I’ve said.”

“Not at all!” exclaimed the Prophet, with frenzied courtesy, “not at all!”

“Yes, you do.  But you’re wrong.  He doesn’t exactly admire my character, but he likes me because I’m tall, and have pleasant coloured eyes, and thick hair, and walk well, and know that he’s really an unusually sensible old man.”

“Oh, is that it?”