“Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, And took with her your trifle of money; Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind— They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny!” W. S. GILBERT: “THE FAMILY FOOL.” Roused by a report of peace hardly less deafening than the crash of war four and a half years earlier, the winter garden of the Majestic hummed like a vast and airless beehive. On the long sofas by the walls, in deferential clusters round some slow-voiced, arm-chair oracle and in wavering groups at one moment distinct and at another herded together, everybody who could find room between the crowded tables and the obtrusive palm-tubs eagerly volleyed question and…
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