This, then, was the "troubadour"--Mr. Fayliss. The Main Attraction was decidedly prepossessing. Tall, peculiarly graceful both in appearance and manner, dressed with an immaculateness that seemed excessive in this post-Bohemian circle. There was a decided musical quality to his speech, as he made polite comments upon being introduced to each of us, and an exactness in sentence-structure, word-choices and enunciation that bespoke the foreigner. Jocelyn took him around with the air of conducting a quick tour through a museum, then settled him momentarily with the music group, now in darkest Schoenberg, only partially illuminated by "Wozzek". I watched Fayliss long enough to solidify an impression that he was at ease here--but not merely in this particular discussion. It was a case of his being simply at ease, period. Kutrov was watching him, too, and I saw now that there would be a most-likely permanent digression. Too bad--I'd had a feeling that when he came to his point, it would have been a strong one. "Hungarian, do you suppose?" he asked. Alva examined the evidence. Fayliss had high cheekbones, longish eyes, with large pupils. He was lean, without giving an impression of thinness. He had not taken off his gloves, and I wondered if he would come forth with a monocle; if he had, it would not have seemed an affectation. "I wouldn't say Slavic," Alva said. He started off on ethnology, and we toured the Near East again. I jumped into the break when Kutrov was swallowing beer and Alva lighting a cigaret to observe that Fayliss reminded me of some Egyptian portraits--although I couldn't set the period. "If those eyes of his don't shine in the dark," I added, "they ought to." * * * * * A brief pause for appreciation, then Jocelyn was calling for all men's attention. She managed to get it in reasonably short order, took a deep breath, then dived into announcing that our "special guest, Mr. Fayliss" was going to deliver a song-cycle. Fayliss arose, bowed slightly, then nodded to Mark Loring, who brought forth his oboe. "These songs were not conceived or composed in the form I am presenting them," he said. "But I believe that the arrangement I use is an effective one. "I call this, 'Song of the Last Men'." He nodded again to Loring, and the performance began. His voice was affecting, and his artistry unmistakable. And there were overtones in his voice that gave an added eeriness to the weird music itself.