The eternal flames curled and writhed, thrusting out their voracious
tongues. There was a great roaring and hissing, and everywhere the
shrieking of damned and tortured souls.
Mrs Bilkington-Biggs, late of Mayfair and ‘The Laurels,’ Bucks., was
chatting to various acquaintances in that sprightly fashion which made
her one of Society’s most charming hostesses.
‘What! You here’--she prattled, ‘so delightful, I’m sure.--Yes--the most
wonderful time--Thursday last--we dined at the Moloch-Molochs’--You
_must_ know them--All the nicest people there--Have you met Mr
Beelzebub?--Oh, quite a charming man--knows simply everybody--He’s
bringing the Herod and Nero set to one of my Thursdays--Delighted to
meet you, I’m sure--What, not _the_ Mr Judas?--Oh--really--d’you
know--.’ And so she went on, glancing curiously from time to time at a
great black object nearby, which seemed to form the base of a vast
pillar, half hidden in the smoke.
‘No, my dear,’ continued Mrs Bilkington-Biggs, ‘I haven’t been presented
to _him_ yet.--I haven’t seen his Highness--but, of course, you know the
real season hasn’t quite begun--’
The great black object moved with dramatic terrible swiftness. It was
Satan’s right hoof, and with one awful kick, it sent Mrs
Bilkington-Biggs flying into the roaring furnace.
‘Any second Thursday, you know, my dear,’ wailed a voice from the heart
of the flames.