"Where's Benton?"
"Switch that table over!"
"Throw on your borders!"
"B flat, then the chord of A."
"That's cut out. Yes—yes!"
"Try that curtain again."
"Bring it down slow. No! God! Carey, do you call that slow? Again!"
The piece was a truly fairy-like creation of a modern Offenbach, romantic in libretto, distinguished and delicate in music, a true operetta of the sort that ten years from now will take its just place as a work of art, no longer subject to the mutilations and humiliations that now attend such Americanizations into the loosely tied vaudeville numbers justly termed comic opera.
At this moment some one touched Doré on the arm, and looking up, she beheld Roderigo Sanderson. In the shadow she perceived nothing but the flash of a diamond stick-pin and the white sheen of his collar, while an odor of perfume distilled itself from the handkerchief he wore in his sleeve and the heavy curls on his forehead.
"You here?"