“Eh?” she queried; “quite sure I’m not——”
“No, no,” they chorused. “Come along!”
Blotte took up an oratorical attitude by the beer-cask:
“Come in—rollicking Emma—you’re making quite a draught—gives me—hic—quite a chill. I must have something to warm me—from within outwards.”
He drew his empty tumbler out of his pocket.
Emma laughed shrilly, and flung the door to:
“My word,” cried she, “you are going it!... Heigho! I say, boys, I have only a paragraph or two to send in to the papers and I’m finished; so let me rest.... Which is the largest and most comfortable seat?”
She moved towards the empty sofa.
As she swung herself round to sit down, she said shrilly:
“Don’t see that poetic idiot Aubrey here. Where’s he braying to-night?”