that night at least. "My good fellow,
I'm here to listen and--to be bored," he replied in his wittiest way.

"Indeed! well I'm in the same boat about the music, but I hope I sha'n't
be bored."

"But good heavens, man, it's an amateur affair--musicale, as the
Wegstaffes call it in true barbarous American jargon--and I fear Edith
Wegstaffe will play Chopin!"

This angered me; I had long suspected Tompkins of entertaining a
sneaking admiration for Edith, and resolved to tell her of this slur at
the first opportunity. I didn't have a chance to answer him; a dozen men
rushed into the room, threw their hats and coats on the bed and rushed
out again.

"They're in a hurry for a drink before the music begins," said
Tompkins....

Going slowly down the long staircase we found a little room on the
second floor crowded with men puffing cigarettes and drinking brandy and
soda. Old Wegstaffe was a generous host, and knew what men liked best
at a musicale. On the top floor four or five half-grown boys were
playing billiards, and the ground floor fairly surged with women of all
ages, degrees and ugliness. To me there was only one pretty girl in the
house, Edith Wegstaffe; but of course I was prejudiced.

It was nine o'clock before Mrs. Wegstaffe gave the signal to begin. The
three long drawing-rooms were jammed with smart looking people, a fair
sprinkling of Bohemians, and a few professionals, whose hair, hands and
glasses betrayed them. The latter stood in groups, eying each other
suspiciously, while regarding the rest of the world with that indulgent
air they assume at musicales. Everything to my unpractised eye seemed in
hopeless disorder; a frightful buzz filled the air, and a blond girl at
the big piano was trying to disentangle a lot of music. Near her stood a
long-haired young man who perspired incessantly. "Ah!" I gloated.
"Nervous! serves him right; he should have stayed at home!"

Just then Mrs. Wegstaffe saw me. "You're just the man I'm looking for,"
said she hurriedly. "Now be a good fellow; do go and tell all those
people in the other room to stop talking. It's nine o'clock, and we're a
half hour behind time." Before I could expostulate she had gone, leaving
me in the same condition as the long-haired young man I had just
derided.

"How tell them to stop talking?" I madly asked myself. Should I go to
each group and politely say: "Please stop, for the music is about to
begin," or should I stand in a doorway and sh