Fosse sat down. Aubrey drowsily took up the cue: “Woman,” said he languidly--“woman is adorably illogical--deliciously ridiculous--exquisitely attractive; but woman has no sense of humour----” Emma Hartroff laughed shrilly: “Good old Aubrey!” cried she. “I always said that our minor poet was lineally descended from his mother.” “Silence!” Lovegood’s bass boomed through the room. “Silence! I will have no one insinuate that our poet’s mother was an ass.” Tumblers on tables, and feet on floor, thundered applause. Aubrey, lying back on the sofa, his arms folded, and his head drooped forward, drowsily opened his eyes: “I repeat,” said he--“Caroline Baddlesmere was simply popular. Popularity is merely a vulgar mood--signifying the commonplace--signifying nothing.” Rippley laughed: “Well, you are not above trying for it, old man,” said he. “And it’s a mighty sight easier to be unknown.” Aubrey yawned: “I seek nothing from popularity,” he said. “Then why do you print yourself?” asked Rippley. “I am in love with art.... I have the perplexing preference for the elements of inspiration rather than for the elements of popularity.” Rippley snorted: “Oh--go to sleep!” said he. Aubrey turned to Emma Hartroff apologetically: “I’m sorry,” he murmured drowsily, “but I have been wandering in the meads by running streams all day, and it has only made me sleepy. I had done better to have invented my own facts in Nature--Nature does not select--like the good God, she is most wasteful.” Emma Hartroff jumped to her feet, and strode up and down a turn or so, her hands in her pockets. She came to a halt, and straddling in the middle of the room, she said suddenly: “D’you know, boys--I _like_ Caroline Baddlesmere!” Lovegood coughed: “Fame, indeed, for Caroline Baddlesmere,” said he. “Yes.” She nodded her head decidedly. “Caroline Baddlesmere’s a rippin’ good sort.” Lovegood, sitting back in his chair, eyed the straddling figure gloomily from under his dark brows: “Certificate of character for Caroline Baddlesmere!” he growled. “Yes.” She nodded again. “I’m ding-dong sorry she’s struck bad luck; but--y’know--Caroline is a bit of a new woman.... Now, _I_ like a woman to _be_ a woman--and _act_ like a woman--and--and--_dress_ like a woman!” There was loud and prolonged laughter, and shouts of satiric applause, and cat-calls. She herself dressed like a policeman. Tumblers were banged on the tables. There were loud cries: “Good old Emma!” “Sublime Emma!” “Gorgeous Emma!” She bent her brows on her mood, and set her feet more firmly apart. “Yes,” said she--“I like a gentle voice in a woman.” The laughter became hysteric. Lovegood raised a gloomy eyebrow: “What’s the matter with Caroline Baddlesmere’s voice?” he growled. She turned on him: “Look here, Eustace; can Caroline Baddlesmere cook?” “God knows!” he said. “Why should she? The Creator did not make woman in the image of a Dutch oven!” Emma Hartroff sat down, and uttered a sigh: