“He isn’t braying, robustious Emma,” said Lovegood from the chair. “He’s on all fours, eating the thistles of humiliation.”

Emma Hartroff plumped her weight on to the sofa, and a wail arose from under her.

She started—then laughed:

“Bless my soul! I have known a sofa to groan before—but this one cries out!” she rattled; and added indignantly:

“As if I didn’t know my figure was gone!”

Aubrey’s voice came plaintively from under her foundations:

“Most adorable Emma,” he groaned.

Lovegood coughed:

“You press heavily upon a poet’s husk,” he said solemnly. “Arise, madam, as you love poetry, and free him.”

Emma arose.