shal themselves, orderly and firm, into the phalanx of an article on "The Decadence of Criticism."
He filled his pipe, drew paper towards him, dipped his pen, and wrote his title on the blank page. The silence came round him, soothing as a beloved presence, the scent of the may bushes in the suburban gardens stole in pleasantly through the open windows. After all, it was a "quiet neighbourhood" as the advertisement had said—at any rate, in the evening: and in the evening a man's best efforts—
Thrum, tum, tum—Thrum, tum, tum came the defiant strumming of a guitar close to the window. He sprang to his feet—this was, indeed, too much! But before he could draw back the curtains and express himself to the intruder, the humming of the guitar was dominated by the first words of a song—
"Oh picerella del vieni al' mare
Nella barchetta veletto di fiore
La biancha prora somiglia al' altare
Tutte le stelle favellan d' amor,"
and so forth. The performer was evidently singing "under her voice," but the effect was
