Andrew Blotte cheered:
“Excellent! Ex’lent!” he said solemnly. “That ain’t—hiccup—altogether bad.... Wonderful thing, genius!”
Lovegood tapped on his chair-arm, and there was silence:
“It is my painful duty,” said he, rising to his feet, “to put it to the republic of letters that our poet be not again heard this evening.”
They all held out their hands, and solemnly turned their thumbs down.
Lovegood nodded gloomily:
“The ayes have it,” he said.... “Citizens, I thank you for recording in dignified silence the contempt which you felt compelled to express for so pathetic an exhibition of mediocrity.” He sighed sadly. “Beer, please, coy Andromache!...”
Blotte strolled unsteadily over to where Emma Hartroff sat on the sofa; and straddling out his legs he gazed at her pensively—the wreath of roses awry over his brow.
“Well, my merry Andrew,” said she, “get it off your chest. What’s worrying you?”
“Emma,” said he slowly, “you don’t do yourself justice.” He put his head on one side critically, and uttered a rending hiccup: “you ought to (hiccup) put plum-juice on the—lobes—of your ears. It would make you look so voluptuous.”