Aubrey, who had taken his stand against the end of the sofa, folded his arms, and said absently:
“‘The wit that rouses rippling laughter now,
May be but winnow’d chaff at fifty—
Raise but a cackling laugh at fourscore years.’”
They all thumped on the tables and tapped heels upon the floor:
“Certainly,” cried the chorus.
Emma Hartroff stood up:
“Tsh!” she hushed; “let the inspired idiot speak.”
She sat down in a hush of silence.
Aubrey ran his hands through his hair: