Though the auditorium was already filled when he walked on stage, Mr. Edward Weeks, editor of the Atlantic Monthly, said that his main purpose was not to introduce the Sitwells as much as to talk until all latecomers had been seated. And to put the audience in the proper frame of mind for hearing poetry read, he said.

After the introduction, Dr. Edith Sitwell strode on stage and up to the lectern. She did not, as some had predicted, arrive on broomstick, astride a lion, or floating on a stream of gurgling honey. She was clad in her poetical uniform (as publicized in Life): a long, green dress, heavy coils of silver around her wrists, and a floor-sweeping, golden cloak with slits for her hands, which clutched her two books, and a large, black, and jarringly prosaic leather handbag.

Before speaking, Dr. Sitwell fumbled about in her purse for a moment, and then said, "Oh dear, I seem to have lost my watch!" Her audience reacted warmly to this; the lady next to me saying, with a fond chuckle, "Isn't that just like a poet!" "Oh, here tis," said Dr. Sitwell, and we were off.

She read, mostly without comment, "Still Falls the Rain," "Three Songs from the Honey Hive" and "The Chain Gang," a poem she said she never had recited before.

Sir Osbert Sitwell, the elder brother, (Sacheverell had been left in England) next came on stage, walking with the aid of a cane, and sat down at another microphone. (Mr. Weeks had explained that Sir Osbert had water-on-the-knee.) He was clad merely in tuxedo and looked very prosperous, distinguished, and glowing. (The Sitwells had just returned from Florida, but only the brother showed a tan.) Sir Osbert read some of his poems--character sketches, they are--and proved himself to be an amusing and more lucid poet than his sister.

Then Dr. Sitwell returned for her last group of poems. Though a lady (in front of me, this time) loudly announced that "she might as well be speaking in a foreign language" it was now becoming easier to catch some of the words as they rose and fell from the poetess' lips. Even without the meaning, the sound was an exceedingly beautiful one.

Sir Osbert came back for the last time, and read from the preface and conclusion to his auto-biography. Speaking as, "a citizen of the sunset age," he asked for a re-evaluation, through art, or our spiritual values. While the audience applauded, Sir Osbert brought his sister back on, and in a brief speech thanked them for their cordiality "on this, our last, public appearance in America."