But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. Thanks. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience.
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