Fosse sat down.
Aubrey drowsily took up the cue:
“Woman,” said he languidly—“woman is adorably illogical—deliciously ridiculous—exquisitely attractive; but woman has no sense of humour——”
Emma Hartroff laughed shrilly:
“Good old Aubrey!” cried she. “I always said that our minor poet was lineally descended from his mother.”
“Silence!” Lovegood’s bass boomed through the room. “Silence! I will have no one insinuate that our poet’s mother was an ass.”
Tumblers on tables, and feet on floor, thundered applause.
Aubrey, lying back on the sofa, his arms folded, and his head drooped forward, drowsily opened his eyes:
“I repeat,” said he—“Caroline Baddlesmere was simply popular. Popularity is merely a vulgar mood—signifying the commonplace—signifying nothing.”
Rippley laughed: