ing a crowd of ten thousand people in Madison Square Garden to vote for Debs. Hey! Cut that! This to the carpenters who had now begun to pound at double the rate they had hitherto employed. Rex dashed off to the further end of the room to repeat the injunction. Soon there was comparative silence, only about as much noise as in the Stock Exchange on a fairly busy day. The director continued: Harold—Harold was a trifle startled by this familiar approach from a man he had never seen before—, you are alone with Dolly, the passionate flapper. She is determined to seduce you, and you are almost ready to yield when you see that picture of the madonna on the wall. The picture reminds you of your good wife, calls you back to your senses, and you cast the vamp off. Now, try it.
Harold sat down, as directed, and Zimbule approached him.
Register the beginning of passion! You are fascinated by the sigh-reen, screamed the director, through a megaphone.
Harold had the air of a man who has just been told that he will die within the month. On the arm of his chair, Zimbule smoothed his hair with her right hand. He felt her warm breath on his cheek. His heart was beating violently in an irregular rhythm that Stravinsky would have given his right ear to have invented.
Nothing like it! NO-THING LIKE IT! drawled the director in a hoarse wail of dissatisfac-
