“Er--yes. N’yes,” he said--and glanced uneasily at the others. Gomme’s face was a stolid impenetrable mask. Fosse skipped over to Gomme, and seizing him by the coat-lapel he said nervously: “Oh--ah--Mr. Gomme----” Eustace Lovegood snorted and strolled away to where Caroline stood. Fosse blinked uncomfortably at Gomme. “Ah--as a matter of fact--I came on business,” said he. His harsh jerky voice dropped into confidential whisper. “Might I beg of you to put in a little paragraph about my coming novel?” Gomme nodded. The little critic coughed: “If--you could hint--just _hint_ that it is somewhat daringly original! I don’t even mind if you hint that it is rather--sinful--with--er--just a little suggestion that I am the English Maupassant, eh!... I can assure you,” he added, touching Gomme’s arm, “I can _assure_ you that Thrumsby Burrage of _The Discriminator_ said so at dinner last night.” Netherby Gomme coughed: “I did not know that Thrumsby Burrage drank,” said he. “Does he? Indeed! Very sad!” The fussy little man’s foxy eyes turned inwards, searching through his quick weasel intelligence to discover the connection, but failed: “Very sad indeed! Genius is nearly always wanting in the moral attributes.... But to return--if you would suggest that my work contains that--er--that--er----” Netherby Gomme nodded: “That combination of religion and immorality which is so alluring to the British public in a work of art,” said he--“yes, I _quite_ understand.” Fosse roused from his self-concentration: “N’yes,” said he--“but perhaps if I----” “Certainly, Mr. Fosse; I was about to suggest that you should write it yourself; and we’ll whip it into shape----” “Delighted, my dear fellow, delighted!” The fussy little man’s fussy little feet began to shuffle with eagerness; he skipped towards Gomme’s desk. Gomme put himself in his way: “If you would send it by post, please, Mr. Fosse! Good-evening!” Fosse came to a halt: “Oh--a moment!” He took a pinch of Gomme’s coat-sleeve: “Y’know the whole town’s as hot over this new humorist, the fellow that wrote _The Tragedy of the Ridiculous_, as they were over Mrs. Baddlesmere a few years ago; but, y’know, they’re overdoing it--they’re overdoing it. There’s bound to be reaction. So I’ve just written a scalding little thing about it.” Gomme’s eyes twinkled: “But----” Fosse tugged impatiently at his sleeve: “Y’know, it doesn’t do to go with the crowd. Art is only for the elect. The popular verdict _must_ be vulgar----” Noll, watching from his high perch on the office-stool, raised his voice: “Now, that’s curious, Fosse,” said he--“for he was here only this morning--and _he_ was talking about _you_.” Fosse was intensely interested: “Indeed!” said he--“how very interesting! May I ask what he said?” “Well, you know, it was a private conversation--I don’t quite exactly like to say----” “It will go no farther--go no farther,” persisted Fosse, on the tip-toe of eagerness.