The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. "Think of me forgetting ten thousand so quickly!" "Go to, you old fraud! You'll never fool me again. That was life. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. She came to befriend the female mistresses, some who were even so audacious as to bring their children into the house. Epithalamy might do. That's the job.
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