“Gracious, boys! I forgot. I have to knock up some paragraphs for The Midnight Sun.”
She fumbled in the breast-pocket of her jacket, and lugged out a note-book.
“Bother!” said she; “what shall I write about?”
She licked the pencil, and cudgelled her genius, but nothing came of it.
Rippley looked down upon her contemptuously:
“Blue Stephens! Emma,” said he—“you have no imagination. Brilliant Literary and Artistic Reception at Mr. Pangbutt’s!”
“Right you are!” she bawled. “That’ll do, rippin’!... Someone dictate, and I’ll write”—she looked round—“You, Lovegood! You have the most gorgeous imagination.”
Lovegood bowed:
“I cannot agree with him who said that the flattery of woman has no end,” he said drily.
“Oh, chuck epigram,” she said—“and dictate, like a good chap.”