was a pause.
“Izzy,” observed the willowy young lady chattily, leaning across Jill and addressing the Southern girl's blonde friend, “has promised me a sunburst!”
A general stir of interest and a coming close together of heads.
“What! Izzy!”
“Sure, Izzy.”
“Well!”
“He's just landed the hat-check privilege at the St Aurea!”
“You don't say!”
“He told me so last night and promised me the sunburst. He was,” admitted the willowy girl regretfully, “a good bit tanked at the time, but I guess he'll make good.” She mused awhile, a rather anxious expression clouding her perfect profile. She looked like a meditative Greek Goddess. “If he doesn't,” she added with maidenly dignity, “it's the las' time
A murmur of approval greeted this admirable sentiment.
“Childrun!” protested Mr Saltzburg. “Chil-drun! Less noise and chatter of conversation. We are here to work! We must not waste time! So! Act One, Opening Chorus. Now, all together. La-la-la —”
“La-la-la —”
“Tum-tum-tumty-tumty —”
“Tum-tum-tumty —”
Mr Saltzburg pressed his hands to his ears in a spasm of pain.
“No, no, no! Sour! Sour! Sour!— Once again. La-la-la —”
A round-faced girl with golden hair and the face of a wondering cherub interrupted, speaking with a lisp.
“Mithter Thalzburg.”
“Now what is it, Miss Trevor?”
“What sort of a show is this?”
“A musical show,” said Mr Saltzburg severely, “and this is a rehearsal of it, not a conversazione. Once more, please —”
The cherub was not to be rebuffed.
“Is the music good, Mithter Thalzburg?”
“When you have rehearsed it, you shall judge for yourself. Come, now —”
“Is there anything in it as good as that waltz of yours you played us when we were rehearthing 'Mind How You Go?' You remember. The one that went —”
A tall and stately girl, with sleepy brown eyes and the air of a duchess in the servants' hall, bent forward and took a kindly interest in the conversation.
“Oh, have you composed a varlse, Mr Saltzburg?” she asked with pleasant condescension. “How interesting, really! Won't you play it for us?”
The sentiment of the meeting seemed to be unanimous in favor of shelving work and listening to Mr Saltzburg's waltz.
“Oh, Mr Saltzburg, do!”
“Please!”
“Some one told me it was a pipterino!”
“I cert'nly do love waltzes!”
“Please, Mr Saltzburg!”
Mr Saltzburg obviously weakened. His fingers touched the keys irresolutely.
“But, childrun!”
“I am sure it would be a great pleasure to all of us,” said the duchess graciously, “if you would play it. There is nothing I enjoy more than a good varlse.”
Mr Saltzburg capitulated. Like all musical directors he had in his leisure moments composed the complete score of a musical play and spent much of his time waylaying librettists on the Rialto and trying to lure them to his apartment to listen to it, with a view to business. The eternal tragedy of a musical director's life is comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to assist others to eat, Mr Saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his soul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct the inferior compositions of other men. Far less persuasion than he had received today was usually required to induce him to play the whole of his score.
“You wish it?” he said. “Well, then! This waltz, you will understand, is the theme of a musical romance which I have composed. It will be sung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a duet for heroine and hero. I weave it into the finale of the second act, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act. What I play you now is the second-act duet. The verse is longer. So! The male voice begins.”
A pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes.
“Ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!” cried Mr Saltzburg remorsefully at the end of that period. “This is not business. Come now, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on the key. Before, it was sour, sour.
