“Oh, you’re beyond me, Eustace. I don’t like you when you’re serious.” She turned to the others: “Our humorist is as solemn as a pawnbroker,” she said. There were loud cries of “Order! order!” Rippley stood up: “Someone _dared_ to speak of pawnbrokers!” he said. Emma Hartroff seized the tails of his coat: “For heaven’s sake, let us have no fines to-night, Rippley--I’m stone-broke----” She started--gave a shrill scream--and added: “Gracious, boys! I forgot. I have to knock up some paragraphs for _The Midnight Sun_.” She fumbled in the breast-pocket of her jacket, and lugged out a note-book. “Bother!” said she; “what shall I write about?” She licked the pencil, and cudgelled her genius, but nothing came of it. Rippley looked down upon her contemptuously: “Blue Stephens! Emma,” said he--“you have no imagination. _Brilliant Literary and Artistic Reception at Mr. Pangbutt’s!_” “Right you are!” she bawled. “That’ll do, rippin’!... Someone dictate, and I’ll write”--she looked round--“You, Lovegood! You have the most gorgeous imagination.” Lovegood bowed: “I cannot agree with him who said that the flattery of woman has no end,” he said drily. “Oh, chuck epigram,” she said--“and dictate, like a good chap.” He set his gaze on the theme, and the great black brows met: “_The select Conversazione in the spacious and brilliantly-lighted rooms--of the--er--world-famous portrait-painter was attended by----_” Emma Hartroff held up her pencil: “Easy all!” said she--“_attended--by_----All right. Go on.” Fluffy Reubens took up the dictation: “----_by the élite of the fashionable world and the flower of Upper Bohemia_----” Emma Hartroff’s pencil scratched down the addition: “_Upper--Bohemia_,” said she. Lovegood coughed: “Which idiot is writing this masterpiece, Emma? the fluffsome Reubens or I?” Fluffy Reubens apologized: “I was so afraid that élite might be left out,” he said. “I am sorry,” said Lovegood sadly, “that so old a friend should think me so barren an artist.” Emma Hartroff looked up: “Oh, chuck argument,” she said impatiently. “Go on, Lovegood!” She licked her pencil invitingly: Lovegood entered into his inspiration again: “_The palatial rooms were resplendent with a hundred lights, and the myriad glass lustres shone like stars above the well-bred Babel assembled in this gorgeous modern palace. Amongst the witty throng mingled eminent men--in the arts and the--er--liberal professions._” He coughed. “Aubrey represents the liberal professions--though he rarely achieves his larger intentions----” “Shut up, Lovegood--and dictate,” said Emma. Lovegood sighed, and got back to his task: “_To say nothing of much beauty and fashion_----” Emma simpered: “Flatterer!” she said giddily. Lovegood bowed: