“Pish!” pshawed Eustace Lovegood. He stepped a pace into the room: “Tragedy!” he roared scornfully, glaring at the fussy minor critic before him; and even the light of the conceited little Egoism seemed to flicker out, blown aside by the big man’s contempt: “Tragedy is the mere melodrama of life—the shedding of blood but the indecent accident of death.... It is comedy, the expression of the joy of living, that is worthy the serious attention of genius.” He rose on his toes and made an elephantine gesture of sending off butterflies into the air. “The exquisite little mot—the fairy fabric of a dainty paradox—the swift epigram! Think of it—the rapture of the exquisite agony that is in the elaborate workmanship to create the spontaneous repartee!”
Mr. Fosse was not quite sure whether he was being chaffed. He was one of those men so wanting in humour that he accused the humorous of lacking humour. He knew that his thin voice sank to insignificance in the deep thunder of this big man.
“Er—yes. N’yes,” he said—and glanced uneasily at the others. Gomme’s face was a stolid impenetrable mask.
Fosse skipped over to Gomme, and seizing him by the coat-lapel he said nervously:
“Oh—ah—Mr. Gomme——”
Eustace Lovegood snorted and strolled away to where Caroline stood.
Fosse blinked uncomfortably at Gomme.
“Ah—as a matter of fact—I came on business,” said he. His harsh jerky voice dropped into confidential whisper. “Might I beg of you to put in a little paragraph about my coming novel?”
Gomme nodded.
The little critic coughed: