Mrs. Hind-Willet, leaning over the chair where Valerie was seated, whispered fervently: 

“Isn’t it graphic!  The music describes an old Breton 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 of dogs who made the Out-of-doors And fashioned mutts to gambol on all fours, Grant us a respite from the city’s stones!  Grant us a grassy place to bury bones!—­A grassy spot to roll on now and then, Oh, Lord of dogs who also fashioned men, Accept our thanks for this brief breath of air, And grant, Oh, Lord, a humble mongrel’s prayer!’

* * * * *