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VIGILThough your wife ran away with a soldier that day,And took with her your trifle of money;Bless your heart, they dont mindtheyre exceedingly kindThey dont blame youas long as youre 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 answer, contributing his pennyworth of gossip and retiring with his pound of rumour.
