Six Hundred Women
Oh, how beautiful!
The Married Woman
Perfect!
The Dean of the Critics
(Sinking quickly into the slumber which always overtakes him during the adagio.) C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!
The Youngest Critic
There is that old fraud asleep again. And to-morrow he’ll print half a column of vapid reminiscence and call it criticism. It’s a wonder his paper stands for him. Because he once heard Liszt, he....
The Great Pianist