Edward Morless. Probably means his son—Waiter!—What do you want, boys? I’m dry as a bone. And we’ve got a long afternoon before us. However, for my part, I shan’t be in any hurry about getting there. What’ll it be?
Xilef Bowowski. A little plum brandy for me.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Bring me some Haig and Haig.
Carbon Hatchett. Manhattan cocktail.
Donald Worcester. A large beer.
Edward Morless. Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, do you think she’ll be any good at all?
Ben Dullard Krupp. A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble piano? Starting in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How could she be?
Donald Worcester. I was reading the other day——
Ben Dullard Krupp. All she plays is trash, of one kind or another. Debussy never does anything but move up and down the whole-tone scale; no melody, no counterpoint, no music at all. And take the Tchaikowsky thing, for instance. Everybody knows that Tchaikowsky always carried a whip in one hand and a gun in the other, and when he wasn’t using one, it was the other. It’s proverbial, and makes such a handy remark when thinking would take too long. And his piano-style: he simply hasn’t got any; it’s pathetic. I see you don’t get my joke on the sixth symphony—the Pathetique. I say, America won’t stand for that sort of thing. Some kindly person should have informed this Madame Frizza Bonjoline before she made a complete fool of herself.
Carbon Hatchett. She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so bad after all.