The gloom over Tremont Street these days might be issuing from the Shubert or Plymouth theatres, or then again, it might just be smoke from the cigars of the two Messrs. Shuberts and Mr. Abbott as they ponder the cruel world and what it has done to their new openings.

Perhaps it is unfair to mention "Night of Love" in the same breath with "White-Haired Boy," which is still fighting for life, and might, with a few injections for which Abbott is famous, manage to get down to New York on its own feet.

But "Night of Love," which the Shuberts are bravely offering, started off with three strikes. The biggest disappointment is Mr. Robert Stolz, famed as the composer of "Two Hearts in Three Quarters' Time," who offers a few dainty waltzes and then reprises for the rest of the evening. There is no novelty tune, nor anything that is even moderately good jazz, and by the third act you will offer your kingdom for a song. The book combines one dull situation with another. It just isn't fair to ask Marguerite Namara, Helen Gleason and John Lodge to submit to such treatment.

"White-Haired Boy" has all the car-marks of a good play. Satirizing an author whom the Gallup poll has concluded to be William Saroyan, it's crammed with crack-pot situations that would do justice to "You Can't Take It With You." Only this time it's Mrs. Kaufman along with Charles Martin who are the authors. They say that George sat through the first-night glum as an owl. His wife can make up the situations, but she just doesn't have the lines to go with them. The whole play is strained; at times it gets downright tedious. But Keenan Wynn's playing is very much alive; and the rest of the cast is commendable. At the curtain you feel they have a right to cry "Author, author." They do need one.

But by Monday night the gloom over Tremont Street should be lifting. Flora Robson's "Ladies In Retirement" is the best murder-mystery to chill Broadway in years. And Joe E. Brown is coming to town in "Elmer the Great," which created a panic in summer theatre. What with Ruth Gordon's "Here Today" playing away to a cheering house at the Copley, you might just as well forget about the mistakes of the past week.