The fussy little minor critic, Fosse, jumped into the opportunity for an opinion:
“One cannot but admire the personality of Caroline Baddlesmere,” he began.
Rippley winked to the others:
“Shorthand writer, please,” he called. “The lips of James Fosse are about to drop pearls.”
Fosse flushed impatiently, but held doggedly to his opportunity:
“But her work was bound to die. It lacked the dainty quality of style”—he twiddled fingers in the air, seeking the expression of subtleties too exquisite for translation by the tongue—“that illuminating light that only comes to the virile-minded; the epigram—finesse—the er—er——”
“Quite so,” growled Lovegood gloomily—“quite so, Mr. Fosse. Unlike your genius, the thrills of cachinnation never followed at her heels.”
Fosse’s fussy eyes looked perplexed:
“N-no, no. Perhaps not. Still—that was not exactly what——”
“Sit down, Fosse!” cried Rippley impatiently. “Let the other ass speak.”