_A large, gloomy hall, with many rows of uncushioned, uncomfortable seats, designed, it would seem, by some one misinformed as to the average width of the normal human pelvis. A number of busts of celebrated composers, once white, but now a dirty gray, stand in niches along the walls. At one end of the hall there is a bare, uncarpeted stage, with nothing on it save a grand piano and a chair. It is raining outside, and, as hundreds of people come crowding in, the air is laden with the mingled scents of umbrellas, raincoats, goloshes, cosmetics, perfumery and wet hair._ _At eight minutes past four,_ THE JANITOR, _after smoothing his hair with his hands and putting on a pair of detachable cuffs, emerges from the wings and crosses the stage, his shoes squeaking hideously at each step. Arriving at the piano, he opens it with solemn slowness. The job seems so absurdly trivial, even to so mean an understanding, that he can't refrain from glorifying it with a bit of hocus-pocus. This takes the form of a careful adjustment of a mysterious something within the instrument. He reaches in, pauses a moment as if in doubt, reaches in again, and then permits a faint smile of conscious sapience and efficiency to illuminate his face. All of this accomplished, he tiptoes back to the wings, his shoes again squeaking._ THE JANITOR Now all of them people think I'm the professor's tuner. (_The thought gives him such delight that, for the moment, his brain is numbed. Then he proceeds._) I guess them tuners make pretty good money. I wish I could get the hang of the trick. It _looks_ easy. (_By this time he has disappeared in the wings and the stage is again a desert. Two or three women, far back in the hall, start a halfhearted handclapping. It dies out at once. The noise of rustling programs and shuffling feet succeeds it._) FOUR HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN Oh, I do _certainly_ hope he plays that lovely _Valse Poupee_ as an encore! They say he does it better than Bloomfield-Zeisler. ONE OF THE CRITICS I hope the animal doesn't pull any encore numbers that I don't recognize. All of these people will buy the paper to-morrow morning just to find out what they have heard. It's infernally embarrassing to have to ask the manager. The public expects a musical critic to be a sort of walking thematic catalogue. The public is an ass. THE SIX OTHER MEN Oh, Lord! What a way to spend an afternoon! A HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN I wonder if he's as handsome as Paderewski. ANOTHER HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN I wonder if he's as gentlemanly as Josef Hofmann. STILL ANOTHER HUNDRED WOMEN I wonder if he's as fascinating as De Pachmann. YET OTHER HUNDREDS I wonder if he has dark eyes. You never can tell by those awful photographs in the newspapers. HALF A DOZEN WOMEN I wonder if he can really play the piano. THE CRITIC AFORESAID