Two lovers are standing in the rain outside a New York hotel. Taxis slither by in the wet, and the doorman eyes them coldly.

"Well, honey," says the man. "I guess we'll have to go back to Hampton Falls."

"Hampton Falls," says the girl, and begin to cry.

Just then a Lincoln town car sweeps up to the curb and out steps a merry old man with a flower in his button-hole.

Chorus: "Why, Uncle Phil!"

Uncle Phil: "Well, my children, your Aunt Eille wrote me you were coming to the city. Why didn't you call me up? Guess you'll be needing a little money, won't you? Here . . . .

The couple enter the hotel arm in arm, the doorman bows deferentially, and Loew's State can breathe again.

Euripides thought of that. Uncle Phil was his dells ex machina.

A Maine farmer sits at his radio of an evening, impressed by the realistic sound of thunger, gunshots, the gear-whine of cars; and he says to his wife "by gorry, that's good," little thinking that the inventor was a Greek of the fifth century, B.C.

There's nothing new, even in theatre critics. Mr. Benchley's commentary on "Mourning Becomes Electra" was a dirge over his own tired extremities. Was it not Sthenodes who rushed from the Theatre of Dionysus, crying "hoigar tephaloi" ("my buttocks hurt")?

Tomorrow the Vagabond will journey again to Greek 11 in Sever 30 at 11 o'clock. (Professor Gulick.)