A shout of protest caught his attention.
“Nonsense, Aubrey,” cried Rippley—“sheer nonsense!”
Lovegood looked up, and put out his hand:
“Order, gentlemen!” said he in thundering bass. “It is most unseemly to insinuate that poets talk nonsense.”
He searched again for the pencil, and wrote the address on the other’s cuff. They were roused from their colloquy by a quarrel. Pangbutt returned to the fireplace, his brows set.
Lovegood stood up:
“Order, gentlemen, order!” he called.
Aubrey languidly appealed to him from the sofa:
“Rippley says he has an idea,” he complained pathetically.
Lovegood motioned for silence: