Donald Worcester. As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk hose. They were the most striking thing about the whole concert.
Ben Dullard Krupp. Blgh-ggh-h!
Xilef Bowowski. I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require any ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes.
Edward Morless. Well, Bowowski, ears were a nuisance today, at any rate, don’t you think? The optic impressions were far the best—easily. I wonder when we’re going to get in here.
Xilef Bowowski has been tramping up and down the corridor, his ultra-distinguished chin a trifle elevated, his hands locked behind his back. He is evidently searching for words. In a moment, the door of the green-room swings open and a well-dressed man is seen bidding good-bye to Madame Frizza. The stranger takes no notice of the group of critics as he brushes past and hurries away. Then a most charming voice welcomes the five critics. The Madame is greeted by four blushes and one scowl. The scowling one, Mr. Krupp, is the first one to enter the green-room. Close behind him come the embarrassed four.
Madame Bonjoline. Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did you like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes?
There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken by
Donald Worcester. Some concert, all right.
Madame Bonjoline. How good of you. I am happy.
Ben Dullard Krupp. I confess I find myself unable to understand the judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did you——