“I say, boys,” said she, “Anthony Baddlesmere’s a bit down at heels, ain’t he? Eh?... Met him an hour ago—looked as if he’d pawned his shirt. I should have thought Caroline Baddlesmere’s book——”
Aubrey opened a sleepy eye where he lay on the sofa:
“Who says Caroline Baddlesmere?” he asked drowsily.
Emma turned on him:
“I say Caroline Baddlesmere,” she said. “I say she has written a book—which is more than your worst enemy could say of you, Aubrey.”
Aubrey yawned:
“Ah! Book is rather a large word, most blunt Emma. Every school-girl prints her literary effusions nowadays. But print and binding do not make a book.”
He yawned again.
Rippley raised his eyebrows:
“Aubrey’s quite inspired to-night,” he said.