n peasant going to
market. You can hear the very click of his sabots and the gurgle of the
cider in his jug. And that queer little slap-stick noise is where he's
striking palms with another peasant bargaining for his cider."

"But where does Yvonne come in?" inquired Valerie in soft bewilderment.

"He's Yvonne's father," whispered Mrs. Hind-Willet. "The girl doesn't
appear during the entire opera. It's a marvellously important advance
beyond the tonal and graphic subtleties of Richard Strauss."

Other earnest and worthy people consumed intervals of five minutes now
and then; a "discuse,"--whom Neville insisted on calling a
"disease,"--said a coy and rather dirty little French poem directly at
her audience, leeringly assisted by an over-sophisticated piano
accompaniment.

"If that's modernity it's certainly naked and nervous enough," commented
Neville, drily.

"It's--it's perfectly horrid," murmured Valerie, the blush still
lingering on cheek and brow. "I can't understand how intelligent people
can even think about such things."

"Modernity," repeated Neville. "Hello; there's Carrillo, the young
apostle of Bruant, who makes such a hit with the elect."

"How, Kelly?"

"Realism, New York, and the spade business. He saw a sign on a Bowery
clothing store,--'Gents Pants Half Off Today,' and he wrote a poem on it
and all Manhattan sat up and welcomed him as a peerless realist; and
dear old Dean Williams compared him to Tolstoy and Ed. Harrigan, and
there was the deuce to pay artistically and generally. Listen to the
Yankee Steinlen in five-minute verse, dear."

Carrillo rose, glanced carelessly at his type-written manuscript and
announced its title unconcernedly:

"_Mutts In Madison Square_.

"A sodden tramp sits scratching on a bench,
The S.C.D. cart trails a lengthening stench
Where White Wings scrape the asphalt; and a breeze
Ripples the fountain and the budding trees.
Now fat old women, waddling like hogs,
Arrive to exercise their various dogs;
And 'round and 'round the little mutts all run,
Grass-maddened, frantic, circling in the sun,
Wagging and nosing--see! beneath yon tree
One little mutt meets his affinity:
And, near, another madly wags his tail
Inquiringly; but his advances fail,
And, 'yap-yap-yap!' replies the shrewish tyke,
So off the other starts upon a hike,
Rushing at random, crazed with sun and air,
Circling and barking out his canine prayer:

"'Oh, Lord