“You don’t do reporting,” said Bob.

“No, I don’t; but that’s all a dramatic review ought to be—­a news story.  Why not have social critics to comment on society entertainments—­or financial critics to roast unhealthy commercial enterprises and advertise safe ones?  How long d’you think Wall Street would stand for that?  Why don’t the papers hire dry-goods experts to prowl through the department stores, publishing the cost prices of merchandise and warning the public against bargain sales?  That’s what we do.  We ridicule and warn and criticize, but we never build up.  The theatrical business is the only one that permits outside interference—­as if the public couldn’t tell a good play from a poor one.  It wouldn’t be so bad if we were always honest; but we’re not:  we have to be smart to hold our jobs.  We’re like a patent dandruff cure—­we don’t cure, but we sting, and the public thinks we’re beneficial.”

Notwithstanding his garrulity, Pope was noticeably ill at ease.  He was conscious of Miss Demorest’s hostile eyes, and the pointed manner in which she ignored his presence was disquieting.  He had the feeling that she was carefully measuring him and preparing herself to take revenge in some characteristic feminine manner.  Knowing extremely little of women, he could not imagine what form that revenge would assume, and the uncertainty annoyed him.  The dinner seemed slow in coming, conversation dragged, and, rising, he began to wander nervously about, canvassing his mind for some excuse to leave.  Bob appeared to enjoy his lack of repose, and offered no relief.  At last Pope turned to the piano and fluttered through the stack of sheet-music he found there.

“Do you play?” inquired Bob.

“Yes.  Why?”

“You look as if you did—­you’re kind of—­badly nourished.  Know any rag-time?”

Pope shuddered.  “I do not.”

“Too bad!  I was going to ask you to stir up the ivories.”

“Nobody likes good music any more,” growled the critic, seating himself upon the bench.  His sensitive fingers idly rippled the length of the keyboard and a flood of melody filled the room.

“Say!  You do know your way around, don’t you?  Can’t you pick out ‘Here Comes My Daddy Now’ with one finger?”

The musician groaned.  “What a pity!” After a moment he murmured, “I improvise a good deal.”  The instrument, perhaps for the first time in its life, began to vibrate and ring to something besides the claptrap music of the day.  Once he had found a means of occupying himself, Pope surrendered to his impulse and in a measure forgot his surroundings.

A short time later Lorelei turned from the kitchenette to find Adoree Demorest poised, a salad-bowl in one hand, a wooden spoon gripped in the other, on her face a rapt expression of beatitude.

“Have you rubbed the dish with garlic?” inquired Lorelei.

Adoree roused herself slowly.  “Lordy!” she whispered.  “I’d give both legs to the knee and one eye if I could play like that.  The mean little shrimp!”