"Taking the Broadway car, me and my liver—my liver is my worst enemy; terrible things, livers; is life really worth the liver?—I sat down and paid my fare to a burly ruffian in a grimy uniform.
"Some day I shall tell you about my adventure with a car. Dear Lord, what an adventure it was!
"Ah, the bitter-sweet days! the long-ago days when we were young and trolleyed.
"But let me tell you how Paderewski played!
"After I reached my seat 4000 women cheered. I was the only man in the house; but being modest, I stood the strain as long as I could, and then—why, Paderewski was bowing, and I forgot all about the women and their enthusiasm at the sight of me.
"Fancy a slender-hipped orchidaceous person, an epicene youth with Botticellian hair and a Nietzsche walk. Fancy ten fluted figures and then—oh, you didn't care what he was playing—indeed, I mislaid my program—and then it was time to go home.
"Some day I shall give you my impressions of the Paderewskian technique, but today is a golden day, the violets are smiling, because God gave them perfume; a lissome lass is in the foreground; why should I bother about piano, Paderewski, or technique?
"Dear Lord, dear Lord—!"
Mr. Quelson looked interrogatively at the committee when the doctor finished.