“How do, Lovegood?” said he.
“Thanks,” said Lovegood solemnly—“I don’t.”
And he added in growled aside to Netherby Gomme:
“I wish this person would not be familiar with my health.”
Mr. Fosse skipped nervously towards Caroline Baddlesmere:
“Eh—eh! Well, Mrs. Baddlesmere; and how’s the book?”
Caroline Baddlesmere’s shoulders gave the slightest possible shrug:
“My book is dead, Mr. Fosse.”
Fosse folded his arms:
“Precisely,” said he. “Honestly, it lacked the vital element of style.” He blew out his narrow little chest—he had the floor. “You have tragedy—pathos—and—er, yes—comedy. Yes, you have a certain amount of humour—a marvellous amount, indeed, for a woman, if you will excuse my saying so. Yet, comedy but raises a laugh”—he shrugged his little shoulders—“and there you are!... Tragedy but appeals to the emotions—draws a tear”—he shrugged his little shoulders again—“and there you are!... But Style is independent of laughter or tears. Tragedy——”