THE ORGANIST (noticing the spit-fire attitude of the cat). He seems to see something. What the deuce has got into him, now? I wonder whether cats do see anything when they act like that. (He drifts into a frail dance harmony, yielding to the seduction of it and closing his eyes). THE BOY LOVER. Wonderful! So delicately gay and sad! It’s just like flowers blooming in the night, isn’t it? (His sweetheart squeezes his hand and moves closer). SIX HAMA-DRYADS (sweeping in from the trees and circling about, wreath-wise under the groined arches of the ceiling. They are a pale, ethereal company, suiting their movements to the melody and its variations). Arch of church or arch of trees, Built of stone or built of air, Spirits floating on a breeze, Dancing gayly anywhere. Out of lilac, out of oak, Hard by asphodel and rose, Never time when music spoke But a dryad fled repose. Weaving, turning, high and low Where the purpled rhythms fall, Where the plangent pipings call, Round and round and round we go. THE FAWN (dancing forward and about them). I can dance! Let me dance! (He grins in the face of one). THE HAMA-DRYADS. Go away! Don’t bother! THE CAT (prowling under the organ). I saw a mouse peeping out of that hole just now. Wait! (He crouches very low, ready to spring). THE ORGANIST (dreamily). This passage always makes me think of moonlight on open fields and the spicy damp breath of a dark dewy wood, and of lilacs blowing over a wall, too. So suitable, but I would rather live than play. (He sighs. A gloomy ghost with sharp green eyes enters from the sacristy, and pauses in the dark angle of the wall). THE GHOST (a barrel house bum a dozen years dead, and still enamored of the earth). What’s doing here, I wonder? (He stares). A lot of fools dancing. (Turns and departs). THE GIRL. Oh Sweetheart, isn’t it perfect. (She lays her head on his shoulder). THE BOY. Darling! THE CAT (springing). There! I almost caught him. (Peers into the hole). Just the same, I know where he is now. (He strolls off with an air of undefeated indifference). THE ORGANIST (missing a note). This finale isn’t so easy. And I don’t like it as well, either. I always stumble in the allegro. (He wipes his brow, improvises a few bars, interpolating also a small portion of the triumphal march from “Aida”). This is different. I can do it better. (He begins upon the Grail motif from “Parsifal”). MRS. STILLWATER (shifting her arm and moving her knee). I never like loud music as well as the softer kind. That middle part was beautiful. MRS. PENCE. Well, I can’t say I like loud music, either, but now this—