“I was so afraid that élite might be left out,” he said.
“I am sorry,” said Lovegood sadly, “that so old a friend should think me so barren an artist.”
Emma Hartroff looked up:
“Oh, chuck argument,” she said impatiently. “Go on, Lovegood!”
She licked her pencil invitingly:
Lovegood entered into his inspiration again:
“The palatial rooms were resplendent with a hundred lights, and the myriad glass lustres shone like stars above the well-bred Babel assembled in this gorgeous modern palace. Amongst the witty throng mingled eminent men—in the arts and the—er—liberal professions.” He coughed. “Aubrey represents the liberal professions—though he rarely achieves his larger intentions——”
“Shut up, Lovegood—and dictate,” said Emma.
Lovegood sighed, and got back to his task: