agedy of a musical director's life is
comparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has to
assist others to eat. Mr. Saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and his
soul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and direct
the inferior compositions of other men. Far less persuasion than he
had received to-day was usually required to induce him to play the
whole of his score.

"You wish it?" he said. "Well, then! This waltz, you will understand,
is the theme of a musical romance which I have composed. It will be
sung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act as a
duet for heroine and hero. I weave it into the finale of the second
act, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act. What
I play you now is the second act duet. The verse is longer. So! The
male voice begins."

A pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes.

"Ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!" cried Mr. Saltzburg
remorsefully at the end of that period. "This is not business. Come
now, the opening chorus of Act One, and please this time keep on the
key. Before, it was sour, sour Come! La-la-la...."

"Mr. Thalzburg!"

"Miss Trevor?"

"There was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. I do
wish...."

"Some other time, some other time! Now we must work. Come!
La-la-la...."

"I wish you could have heard it, girls" said the cherub regretfully.
"Honetht, it was lalapalootha!"

The pack broke into full cry.

"Oh, Mr. Saltzburg!"

"Please, Mr. Saltzburg!"

"Do play the fox-trot, Mr. Saltzburg!"

"If it is as good as the varlse," said the duchess, stooping once more
to the common level, "I am sure it must be very good indeed." She
powdered her nose. "And one so rarely hears musicianly music nowadays,
does one?"

"Which fox-trot?" asked Mr. Saltzburg weakly.

"Play 'em all!" decided a voice on the left.

"Yes, play 'em all," bayed the pack.

"I am sure that that would be charming," agreed the duchess, replacing
her powder-puff.

Mr. Saltzburg played 'em all. This man by now seemed entirely lost to
shame. The precious minutes that belonged to his employers and should
have been earmarked for "The Rose of America" flitted by. The ladies
and gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing and
learning to deliver the melodies of Roland Trevis and the lyrics of
Otis Pilkington, lolled back in their seats. The yellow-keyed piano
rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught.