staggers into the wings. He returns with his own accessories, which include italianate landscapes, a hundred and one pasteboard harlequins, and a stuffed unicorn suitable for a hat rack. Press on the horn and he will stamp his silver hooves. The stage is too full of furniture and well-dressed people, most of whom are bores. A conversation dies in euphuisms. . . . Now Mr Sitwell grows excited. He leaps into the wings and drags out new properties: clowns, billboards, subways. The play continues. It has flashes of a new brilliance, but it is "talky and unreal"; in general it bears a surprising resemblance to the comedy of the Georgians. The audience yawns. There is too much scenery which, though freshly painted, remains painted scenery. The more it changes the more it stays the same. . . . A man is the stature of his enemies. Nobody calls the Georgian poets gigantic. By force of combatting them Mr Sitwell has assumed their likeness, but not in all respects. The Georgians were dull, and yet with an effort they were readable. It takes someone more clever to be profoundly boring.
