Blotte waved his arm, standing by the barrel: “Come along, jovial Emma,” said he, and hiccuped. “Eh?” she queried; “quite sure I’m not----” “No, no,” they chorused. “Come along!” Blotte took up an oratorical attitude by the beer-cask: “Come in--rollicking Emma--you’re making quite a draught--gives me--hic--quite a chill. I must have something to warm me--from within outwards.” He drew his empty tumbler out of his pocket. Emma laughed shrilly, and flung the door to: “My word,” cried she, “you _are_ going it!... Heigho! I say, boys, I have only a paragraph or two to send in to the papers and I’m finished; so let me rest.... Which is the largest and most comfortable seat?” She moved towards the empty sofa. As she swung herself round to sit down, she said shrilly: “Don’t see that poetic idiot Aubrey here. Where’s he braying to-night?” “He isn’t braying, robustious Emma,” said Lovegood from the chair. “He’s on all fours, eating the thistles of humiliation.” Emma Hartroff plumped her weight on to the sofa, and a wail arose from under her. She started--then laughed: “Bless my soul! I have known a sofa to groan before--but this one cries out!” she rattled; and added indignantly: “As if I didn’t know my figure was gone!” Aubrey’s voice came plaintively from under her foundations: “Most adorable Emma,” he groaned. Lovegood coughed: “You press heavily upon a poet’s husk,” he said solemnly. “Arise, madam, as you love poetry, and free him.” Emma arose. As Aubrey crawled out, all tousled and tossed, from under the sofa, a shout went up. He gathered himself on to his feet and brushed his knees. She sat down: “The ecstatic ass is not dead, after all,” she said. Aubrey bowed, polite and affected as always: “Ah, madam,” said he--“the weight of your opposition crushes me.” Lovegood chuckled: “But you have not his death upon your conscience, glorious Emma. The recorded word remains unbroken--no one has yet seen a dead donkey.” Emma Hartroff shrugged her shoulders: “That is of no consequence,” she said. “But there are other--serious things. There’s no doubt about it--I’ve begun to apologize for my figure.” “Hush, Emma!” Lovegood’s pale face became serious “You should never apologize for the acts of Providence. It is most irreligious.” Aubrey, who had taken his stand against the end of the sofa, folded his arms, and said absently: “‘The wit that rouses rippling laughter now, May be but winnow’d chaff at fifty-- Raise but a cackling laugh at fourscore years.’” They all thumped on the tables and tapped heels upon the floor: “Certainly,” cried the chorus. Emma Hartroff stood up: “Tsh!” she hushed; “let the inspired idiot speak.” She sat down in a hush of silence. Aubrey ran his hands through his hair: