“Of course you do.” Blotte burst out into a great laugh. He suddenly button-holed him again: “I say, I suppose _you_ wouldn’t care to--come--and see the almonds bloom?” He gazed at his dandified host, and slowly shook his head. The wreath came down over one eye: “You won’t come to meet the pageant of the Spring?” He shook his head in answer to the other’s shake; and, turning clumsily, lurched towards the door. Emma Hartroff called to him from her sofa: “Where are you going, Blotte?” At the door Blotte halted and faced the room: “Goo’-night!” he said. “I would embrace you, Emma, but there are so many of you it would seem polygamous.” He squealed gaily, and kicked out a leg--it nearly flung him off his feet. As he fumbled at the handle: “Quite sure,” said he, hanging to the door, “quite sure you won’t all come--and walk on air--and--sing?” He shook his head sadly: “Will no one come with me to see the almonds bloom?” said he; and fell through the doorway with a clatter, his feet inside. Pangbutt hurried after him: “A moment,” said he, as he passed Lovegood. “I’ll see him out. My guests do not require a host.” Lovegood smiled grimly: “No,” said he--“they are a host in themselves.” The door closed on Pangbutt. A titter went round the room. Emma Hartroff sat up suddenly on the sofa: “I say, boys,” said she, “Anthony Baddlesmere’s a bit down at heels, ain’t he? Eh?... Met him an hour ago--looked as if he’d pawned his shirt. I should have thought Caroline Baddlesmere’s book----” Aubrey opened a sleepy eye where he lay on the sofa: “Who says Caroline Baddlesmere?” he asked drowsily. Emma turned on him: “_I_ say Caroline Baddlesmere,” she said. “I say she has written a book--which is more than your worst enemy could say of you, Aubrey.” Aubrey yawned: “Ah! Book is rather a large word, most blunt Emma. Every school-girl prints her literary effusions nowadays. But print and binding do not make a book.” He yawned again. Rippley raised his eyebrows: “Aubrey’s quite inspired to-night,” he said. The fussy little minor critic, Fosse, jumped into the opportunity for an opinion: “One cannot but admire the personality of Caroline Baddlesmere,” he began. Rippley winked to the others: “Shorthand writer, please,” he called. “The lips of James Fosse are about to drop pearls.” Fosse flushed impatiently, but held doggedly to his opportunity: “But her work was bound to die. It lacked the dainty quality of style”--he twiddled fingers in the air, seeking the expression of subtleties too exquisite for translation by the tongue--“that illuminating light that only comes to the virile-minded; the epigram--finesse--the er--er----” “Quite so,” growled Lovegood gloomily--“quite so, Mr. Fosse. Unlike your genius, the thrills of cachinnation never followed at her heels.” Fosse’s fussy eyes looked perplexed: “N-no, no. Perhaps not. Still--that was not exactly what----” “Sit down, Fosse!” cried Rippley impatiently. “Let the other ass speak.”