THE COMEDY BEGINS The Art Critic who had smiled was--like all men--a subject for pity rather than for blame.

An Irishman of real ability, he had started life with high ideals and a belief that he could live with them.

He had hoped to serve Art, to keep his service pure; but, having one day let his acid temperament out of hand to revel in an orgy of personal retaliation, he had since never known when she would slip her chain and come home smothered in mire.

Moreover, he no longer chastised her when she came.
His ideals had left him, one by one; he now lived alone, immune from dignity and shame, soothing himself with whisky.

A man of rancour, meet for pity, and, in his cups, contented.