lamplighter, bourgeoned spasmodically like garish flowers of the
metropolitan night. Across the way gas-lit windows glowed like squares
on some great, blurred checker-board. The roadway teemed with
shrieking children. Somewhere--near at hand--a pianola lost its temper
and whaled the everlasting daylights out of an inoffensive melody from
"The Pink Lady." Other, more diffident instruments tinkled
apologetically in the distance. Intermittently, across the gaunt
scaffolding of the Ninth Avenue L, at one end of the block, roaring
trains flashed long chains of lights. On the other hand, Eighth Avenue
buzzed resonantly in stifling clouds of incandescent dust. The air
smelt of warm asphalt....

And it was Spring: the tenth Spring P. Sybarite had watched from that
self-same spot.

Discontent bred in him a brooding despondency. He felt quite sure that
the realists were right about Life: it wasn't worth living, after all.

The prospect of the theatre lost its attraction. He was sure he
wouldn't enjoy it. Such silly romantical nonsense was out of tune with
the immortal Truth about Things, which he had just discovered: Life
was a poor Joke....

At his side, George Bross, on his behalf, was nursing his private and
personal grouch. Between them they manufactured an atmosphere of gloom
that would have done credit to a brace of dumb Socialists.

But presently Miss Prim and Miss Lessing appeared, and changed all
that in a twinkling.