As Queen Victoria did not say, we were amused, very much amused, at the University Theatre last night when we strolled in to see Ed Brendel play "Mr. Lemon of Orange". There was every reason why we should have been. If Edward Cantor, Esquire, designs the dialogue things are fated to happen to one's abdominal district, whence the human laugh is said to find its being. And when a Swede speaks English, even though it is really an American making an entirely successful attempt to speak Anglo-Swedish, one rejoices unrestrained.

Mademoiselle Dorsay, who was obviously put into the cast to delight the masculine element in the audience, and to bring love life to the Swede, succeeded in doing both quite thoroughly. For the rest, the producer hired a lot of gentlemen with broken noses and created another gang-land picture. Mr. Lemon was a very simple Swede. Mr. McGee was a very complicated and very hard thug, whose cigars were of the definite variety. Both were Mr. Brendel. Both became involved with Miss Dorsay, calling her "Mees Yulee", or "that skoit" antiphonally. Both finally came to blows, and Mr. Brendel wrestled with himself all over the front lawn, threatened himself with a fake revover, and sent himself off to justice, leaving himself to enjoy Fill's company undistrubed.

In contrast to "Mr. Lemon", which as usual combined with other things to leave one feeling entirely at peace with the world of men, "Millie", starring Helen Twelvetrees, was so stupid that it hurt. Miss Twelvetrees is so constantly in personal communication with her director that one feels uncomfortably intrusive, and gropes for the nearest exist. If one is so unlucky as to wish to stick to it out, one sees Miss Twelvetrees get indecently plastered, hears her tell her chauffeur to drive faster, faster, hears the pistol fired, and hopes to God that it is Miss Twelvetrees. It isn't, but she is acquitted and goes home, having learned her lesson. So did the audience.