"But where does Yvonne come in?" inquired Valerie in soft bewilderment.
"He's Yvonne's father," whispered Mrs. Hind-Willet. "The girl doesn't appear during the entire opera. It's a marvellously important advance beyond the tonal and graphic subtleties of Richard Strauss."
Other earnest and worthy people consumed intervals of five minutes now and then; a "discuse,"—whom Neville insisted on calling a "disease,"—said a coy and rather dirty little French poem directly at her audience, leeringly assisted by an over-sophisticated piano accompaniment.
"If that's modernity it's certainly naked and nervous enough," commented
Neville, drily.
"It's—it's perfectly horrid," murmured Valerie, the blush still lingering on cheek and brow. "I can't understand how intelligent people can even think about such things."
"Modernity," repeated Neville. "Hello; there's Carrillo, the young apostle of Bruant, who makes such a hit with the elect."
"How, Kelly?"
"Realism, New York, and the spade business. He saw a sign on a Bowery clothing store,—'Gents Pants Half Off Today,' and he wrote a poem on it and all Manhattan sat up and welcomed him as a peerless realist; and dear old Dean Williams compared him to Tolstoy and Ed. Harrigan, and there was the deuce to pay artistically and generally. Listen to the Yankee Steinlen in five-minute verse, dear."
Carrillo rose, glanced carelessly at his type-written manuscript and announced its title unconcernedly:
"Mutts In Madison Square.