that he is not amused by good writing, nimble ideas,
sharp characterization, searching philosophy and the
component parts of good drama. He is, to the con-
trary, amused primarily by such characterizations
as rest in a forty-eight year old actress' depiction of
a flapper by standing firmly on one foot and coyly,
with head drooped, twisting the other in an out-
ward direction, and by such philosophies as lie in a
rebellious heroine's challenge to her cruel father that
she didn't ask to be born. To such stimuli the New
York first-night audience seldom fails to echo. Does
the leading man tenderly observe that the heroine's
hair is like a mass of burnished copper or that her
teeth are like pearls, the effect is electric. Does he,
per contra, remark a trifle less conventionally that
the fair heroine is like a bright flag flying in the
breeze (as in Mr. Austin Strong play "Bunny")
and the effect is palsy-stricken. Does a pantaloon
moistly ruminate that the heroine is like a broken
flower tossed aside on the cruel highway of life
there unnoticed and scorned to fade and wither and
die, and the sniffles take on the volume of a New
Hampshire hay-fever cantonment. Does a ma-
demoiselle look fixedly at the Brussels while some
noble Bushman leans close to her right ear and mur-
murs therein that there are greater things after all
than fame and fortune and a career -- a tiny cottage
all covered with roses and little children laughing
and pulling at her apron-strings -- and the ocular
salt-drops flow like bock beer in West Street.

This innocence, this anésthesia to somewhat less
obvious stratagems and to fine drama and the things

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