"How simple are the acts of genius--after they're accomplished!"
observed Mr. Prohack. "Naturally you signed it in the box."

As he rejoined his family he yawned, surprising himself. He began to
feel a mysterious fatigue. The effect of the Turkish bath, without
doubt! The remainder of the evening stretched out in front of him,
interminably tedious. The title of the play was misleading. He could not
smack his face. He wished to heaven he could.... And then, after the
play, the ball! Eliza might tell him to dance with her. She would be
quite capable of such a deed. And by universal convention her
suggestions were the equivalent of demands. Nobody ever could or would
refuse to dance with Eliza.... There she was, all her four limbs
superbly displayed, sweetly smiling with her enormous mouth, just as if
the relations between Blaggs and herself were those of Paul and
Virginia. The excited audience, in the professional phrase, was "eating"
her.




V


Mr. Prohack was really a most absurd person. _Smack Your Face_, when it
came to an end, towards midnight, had established itself as an authentic
enormous success; and because Mr. Prohack did not care for it, because
it bored him, because he found it vulgar and tedious and expensive,
because it tasted in his mouth like a dust-and-ashes sandwich, the
fellow actually felt sad; he felt even bitter. He hated to see the