“Now, you know, Mr. Gomme,” said the fussy little man—“in confidence, all these fellows take themselves too seriously to-day. Look at Rippley! he’s utterly uncultured—he hasn’t an aitch in his composition.”
Gomme nodded:
“But there isn’t an aitch in composition,” he said demurely.
“N-no.” Fosse stammered, becoming nervous. “But he can’t even pronounce the names of the ancients whose gods he models!”
Gomme smiled:
“No—but he can model ’em.”
Fosse was puzzled for an answer:
“N’yes, that’s true perhaps. But there’s Aubrey—look at his legs, his knees, his hair, his airs, his ties! He is for ever publishing volumes of poems which no one reads.”
“Yes,” said Gomme. “But the publishers must have their luxuries.”
“Then there is Blotte. You know he has never produced a complete work yet.”