“_Mr. Fosse, the English Maupassant, was to be seen flitting from group to group, discoursing on the magnetism of style. Mr. Carver Rippley, whose possible election to the Academy was the topic of much speculation, explained away the motive of his coming masterpiece in marble. Mr. Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre_----” A bottle-necked man with a shapeless head, colourless hair, and a fat puffy underlip beneath a slovenly moustache slowly rose from a chair. Rippley flung himself upon him, punched him in the midriff, and threw him back into his seat. Rippley’s brows were knit: “For God’s sake,” said he, frowning at Lovegood--“don’t start Quogge Myre talking. He always takes two columns of close print to yield up an idea--and then it isn’t his own.” Lovegood chuckled grimly: “_A most pleasant evening showed Mr. Pangbutt to be not only a man of mark in the fashionable world, but a brilliant and amusing host--his loud, jolly laugh and gay camaraderie setting the keynote of refined amusement to the distinguished party that poured through his palatial rooms._” Emma Hartroff looked up--the pencil on her lip: “Hang it all, you’ve left _me_ out, Lovegood!” she said. Lovegood smiled: “I distinctly mentioned beauty and fashion, Emma. But I will give you the personal note: _Miss Hartroff was elegantly dressed in peau-de-suede gloves of the latest colour_----” Rippley said “Naughty!” Lovegood coughed: “_Mr. Aubrey, languidly witty, was the soul of poetry in motion._” There was a gentle snore. Rippley held up a hand, motioning for silence: “Ts-s-sh!” he hushed; and he added in a whisper: “Poetry sleeps.” Aubrey was heavily asleep in his corner of the sofa; chin on chest, his inert arms fallen listless by his sides. Lovegood rose from his chair, and said in a low growl: “Citizens, the republic of letters is again called upon to record its august vote.” He pointed tragically to the sleeping beauty: “This weary Affair that lies before you, its lank indecent limbs stretched in such graceless attitude of repose, has once already, during this evening, offended your eyes, insulted your intelligence, galled your ears, with the declaiming of unasked-for verse.” “Intolerable!” growled Rippley; and “Intolerable!” growled they all. “Hush!” said Rippley. Lovegood pointed a scornful hand at the sleeping poet: “The Thing stood up, stopped conversation, and--uttered indifferent verse!” said he. They all shook their heads. Lovegood’s pale face glowered upon them: “Here is a being, old before his time, usurping the wisdom of the world--which were bad enough--but, worse still, offending your sight, as citizen Rippley might say, by affecting the hair of decadence.” Fluffy Reubens coughed: “Preposterous,” growled he--“cut it off.” An angelic smile spread over the pale features of Eustace Lovegood: