Quogge Myre stared at his little disciple with contempt; a sneer played about his puffy lip—became too tense for silence:
“This man repeats what I say—what I used to say—like flattery,” he said.
Lovegood smiled grimly:
“Oh,” said he—“he stays in Paris sometimes now. And there are the French newspapers.”
Myre shrugged his shoulders:
“I have changed all my ideas on these subjects——”
But the ridiculous figure of Ffolliott strolled nervously up to the group, and interrupting the critical vapourings of Quogge Myre, he said with affected drawl:
“D’you know, I feel such an awful ass—and I don’t get used to it.”
Lovegood gazed at him solemnly:
“Young fellow,” said he—“you must not be egotistical—it’s bad for the morals. Try and forget yourself in that disguise.”