"Somehow it hasn't to me. I can't seem to think of people standing up and singing this way if they've anything to tell. It takes so everlastingly long. Just suppose that when I went to business to-morrow I should throw my hand out like this," with a broad, forward gesture that barely missed the head of the lady in front of him, "and sing:
Oh, Mr. Weinstein, it's nine o'clock, sir,
Oh, don't you want me to walk down the block, sir?
And then he'd answer with his arms folded like this:
Oh, Mr. Brown, get on to your job——
And there'd be some swearing in the last line. If you want to get anything over you've got to drop the poetry business. It isn't real like a play. Will you go with me to a play next week?"
"Thank you ever so much, but——"
"Oh, drop the 'but.' I'll get the tickets Monday. We'll go to something jolly."
"I shouldn't enjoy it as much as this. This is the most beautiful, the most wonderful thing, I've ever seen."
Dick flushed with pleasure and settled in his seat as the curtain rose upon the last act.
Even he was moved by the Miserere, and when the dungeon scene was reached he whispered, "Golly, I like that, I've heard it on the hand-organs. I never guessed though that it was about the mountains." He started to hum it but Hertha gently silenced him, and he was quiet and attentive until the curtain went down.