Talk is and that exact concerning one French writer, hight Balzac, namely: he used to stay up late at night writing pot boilers, immersed in smoke, eclipsed by coffee. Perhaps "La Menage de Garcon" was one of the potboilers. One of the better potboilers. One cannot be sure when he sees the novel through at least three mediums plus Otis Skinner. "The Honor of the Family", born a bon mot, dies a cliche. One must, however, respect the dead. Mr. Skinner, Miss Jessie Royce Landis are very kind pall-bearers. But why the funeral?

That question enters and reenters the mind of whoever watches (from behind a pillar) the roaring revolutions, evolutions, devolutions of Mr. Skinner's cane; the extravagant movements of his beaver. The play really need never be played. Melodrama has died its natural death. And even French melodrama with occasional wit is brief in its amusement.

When an excellent actor grows old he grows sentimental, a trifle lazy. Mr. Skinner is growing old. So there is some reason for his leaving the donkey and the organ for the beaver and the cane of Colonel Phillipe, defender of the honor of the family and so many, many francs! Francs! There the Gallic flavor enters. One wonders if this should not be recommended to the business school. Not in many moons has the power of a franc appeared so vast.

Sentimentality, and laziness are, in their own way, amusing. And after the quiet sibilations of supposed British accents the roars of the brave colonel are refreshing. Nor is Miss Landis unattractive. One could not mind having her about the house. The aged Jean Jacques was not such a fool, after all. And no one can dislike hearing a man go singing to his death when one is sure he will return. The colonel had to return, if only to wave his handkerchief. By the way, devotees of the Metropolitan should see the uniform on--was he a captain? That alone is worth, sacre bleu, twelve thousand francs of my uncle's money