As his voice ceased there was a brisk step on the landing outside--a sharp knock--and the door flew open. A little man with a big moustache entered fussily, on jerky restless feet, and glanced sharply round the room; he was best known as a minor critic--one of those men who condemn everything they do not understand: “How do, Mrs. Baddlesmere?” he said, with a harsh voice and nervous manner. His eyes glanced away to Julia, to whom he nodded: “How do, Miss Julia?” His glance jumped to Noll where he sat observant, chin in palms, on the high office-chair: “How do, Master Noll?” The boy nodded: “You’ve forgotten your hat, Fosse,” said he. The fussy little man snapped off his hat: “So I have--so I have!” he yapped. Eustace Lovegood took three heavy paces towards Gomme, and said, with a black frown, in a confidential aside: “Faugh! that dreadful fussy little man of rude health--and the scarlet voice!” Mr. Fosse turned at the grumbled bass: “How do, Lovegood?” said he. “Thanks,” said Lovegood solemnly--“I don’t.” And he added in growled aside to Netherby Gomme: “I wish this person would not be familiar with my health.” Mr. Fosse skipped nervously towards Caroline Baddlesmere: “Eh--eh! Well, Mrs. Baddlesmere; and how’s the book?” Caroline Baddlesmere’s shoulders gave the slightest possible shrug: “My book is dead, Mr. Fosse.” Fosse folded his arms: “Precisely,” said he. “Honestly, it lacked the vital element of style.” He blew out his narrow little chest--he had the floor. “You have tragedy--pathos--and--er, yes--comedy. Yes, you have a certain amount of humour--a marvellous amount, indeed, for a woman, if you will excuse my saying so. Yet, comedy but raises a laugh”--he shrugged his little shoulders--“and there you are!... Tragedy but appeals to the emotions--draws a tear”--he shrugged his little shoulders again--“and there you are!... But Style is independent of laughter or tears. Tragedy----” “Pish!” pshawed Eustace Lovegood. He stepped a pace into the room: “Tragedy!” he roared scornfully, glaring at the fussy minor critic before him; and even the light of the conceited little Egoism seemed to flicker out, blown aside by the big man’s contempt: “Tragedy is the mere melodrama of life--the shedding of blood but the indecent accident of death.... It is comedy, the expression of the joy of living, that is worthy the serious attention of genius.” He rose on his toes and made an elephantine gesture of sending off butterflies into the air. “The exquisite little _mot_--the fairy fabric of a dainty paradox--the swift epigram! Think of it--the rapture of the exquisite agony that is in the elaborate workmanship to create the spontaneous repartee!” Mr. Fosse was not quite sure whether he was being chaffed. He was one of those men so wanting in humour that he accused the humorous of lacking humour. He knew that his thin voice sank to insignificance in the deep thunder of this big man.