MADAME BONJOLINE. How delightfully American you are! So frank, so utterly frank! But that reminds me: my friend, James Shooneker—perhaps you saw him; he left just as you came in—told me that my playing looked as good as it sounded. How strange a coincidence! You all know him, of course. For Europe, he is the great critic. He is in Chicago for a short time, and he is going to review my recital for a magazine here—I believe it is called _Le Petit Revue_, or something like that. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, _The Little Review_. I have heard of it. Ha! DONALD WORCESTER. Their poor musical writer was in your audience this afternoon, Madame. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. He’s one of those chaps you can meet three or four times and still never recognize on the street. MADAME BONJOLINE. So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going to “write up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number of _The Little Review_ is coming from the press in the morning, and his article will appear in it. CARBON HATCHETT. So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it? MADAME BONJOLINE. Och! He has written so many, many books! I do not know which one you mean. The charms of the woman, her little moues, smiles, and quick gestures, are entangling the five men. Conversation becomes increasingly difficult. The writers leave the green-room and, on the outside with the door closed, they glance nervously at one another. EDWARD MORLESS. Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he? BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that sheet. EDWARD MORLESS. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a terrible afternoon. DONALD WORCESTER. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to Walter Spratt’s piano-playing. CARBON HATCHETT. Do you call that playing? Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip, as it were. DONALD WORCESTER. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his things,—_Half-tones in Modern Music_. BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was scarcely more than a boy. DONALD WORCESTER. It was published in 1909, I see.