Heralded by this pat and pleasant show-title, Miss Ann Pennington once more recommends herself to a Harvard following. If spontaneity is one's criterion, as it is the Playgoer's, she is the whole show. The years have not taken away the sparkle of that diminutive dancing figure. She still can hold the attention against all the cast around her. One scene in particular comes to mind, where Miss Pennington, elevated above the other figures of the ensemble, is revealed by the rising curtain in a dimly-lighted setting of red, black, and purple. Slow music, with the drums, becomes very like Ravel's "Bolero," and before long Miss Pennington is at it again, arms and legs, in double-quick time.

Miss Pennington's spontaneity does not extend to the plot, which seems to an admittedly intolerant Playgoer just another refurbishing of ideas that were old even before "Jack O'Lantern" came to town. Such matter as the old pun about coffe-grounds, or the mix-up taken from O'Henry's "Gifts of the Magi," or the business of loading teacups with sugar-lumps as a sign of abstraction--all these held no charm for the Playgoer, while the very smoothness and finish of the performance depressed him. For as he watched Mr. Shaw's infinitely competent capering, he hoped for just one little slip, one engaging little faux-pas to betoken the amateur spirit. But infallibly Mr. Shaw knows when to smile, when to wait for applause. Mr. Shaw has been playing juveniles since 1908, and from his deadly perfection there is no escape.

Other time-honored elements annoy the Playgoer. He denies that black-and-silver studio apartments and spirituous clinkings in the shaker can lend urbanity to commonplace repartee. He dislikes the glib patter that comes forth like a well-learned lesson from the actors' mouths. He misses that moment of hesitation which, in real life, attends the birth of a bon mot.

But it is only fair to admit that "Everybody's Welcome" is no more conventional than the run of musical comedies. The Playgoer is railing rather at the whole species. He thinks back to the brave days of Gilbert and Sullivan, of "Patience" and of "Pinafore." When the curtain rises on a new show, he recalls Sullivan's baton at the Savoy, and nostalgia overcomes him. He blows the froth off the new theatrical brew, looks within the stein, and finds it empty. Disappointment has made him crusty, and of the modern shows he applauds only "Of Thee I Sing," the one perfect blend of the "hey-nonny-nonny and the ha-cha-cha."