“‘The eyes that catch our eyes, and check our breath with sweet, delicious ecstasies May be but line-marked eyes, with disillusion’d sight at fifty-- Tear-fill’d, and inward cast in age’s loneliness at fourscore years. But shall we therefore fear to laugh--since jests grow old? Or cease to garner for old age’s ease--since graveyards yawn alike for spendthrift and for thrifty? Shall we fulfil, with homage of a loveless life, black Pessimism’s scold That that we do matters as little, after the years we lease, as the worn idols to whom none now bow?’” Emma Hartroff, pointing to the vacant place beside her, waved him to it: “H’m!... Sit down, Aubrey.” Aubrey sat down, and, lolling back comfortably in the corner of it, he spread himself out luxuriously. Andrew Blotte cheered: “Excellent! Ex’lent!” he said solemnly. “That ain’t--hiccup--altogether bad.... Wonderful thing, genius!” Lovegood tapped on his chair-arm, and there was silence: “It is my painful duty,” said he, rising to his feet, “to put it to the republic of letters that our poet be not again heard this evening.” They all held out their hands, and solemnly turned their thumbs down. Lovegood nodded gloomily: “The ayes have it,” he said.... “Citizens, I thank you for recording in dignified silence the contempt which you felt compelled to express for so pathetic an exhibition of mediocrity.” He sighed sadly. “Beer, please, coy Andromache!...” Blotte strolled unsteadily over to where Emma Hartroff sat on the sofa; and straddling out his legs he gazed at her pensively--the wreath of roses awry over his brow. “Well, my merry Andrew,” said she, “get it off your chest. What’s worrying you?” “Emma,” said he slowly, “you don’t do yourself justice.” He put his head on one side critically, and uttered a rending hiccup: “you ought to (hiccup) put plum-juice on the--lobes--of your ears. It would make you look so voluptuous.” “Get out,” said she. “But look here, Master Andrew, what have _you_ been doing of late?” He stood swaying and balancing himself, the wreath awry on his head, and hiccuped: “I’ve been trying to discover the source of heartburn in a radish,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stay any longer, adorable Emma,” he added flirtily, “but will you come with me to the sunny south to see the almonds bloom?” “Oh--get out!” He sighed: “Well--I must go alone.” And he added dramatically, spilling much beer in Emma’s lap: “Away from this black cauldron of the city, to meet the pageant of the Spring!” He turned and shuffled over slowly to Paul Pangbutt: “Good-bye, old--Polyglot!...” He crooned. “I forget your name--but I’m sorry I can’t stay.... This palace of varieties” (he waved his arm round the room) is most alluring--but I’m sorry--I can’t stay.” Pangbutt nodded, humouring him: “I understand,” he said.