He was suddenly in conference with conductors of symphony orchestras, directors of art-schools, owners of itinerant Chautauquas, liberal governors, ex-clergymen who wrote tasty philosophy for newspaper syndicates, in fact all the proprietors of American intellectuality— particularly including a millionaire named Minnigen who had recently been elevating the artistic standards of the motion pictures.
"Well, anyway— She who might have picked any number of well-bred, agreeable, intelligent chaps—and I MEAN intelligent, because this Arrowsmith person may know all about germs, but he doesn’t know a symphony from a savory…… I don’t think I’m too fussy, but I don’t quite see why we should go to a house where the host apparently enjoys flatly contradicting you…… Poor devil, I’m really sorry for him; probably he doesn’t even know when he’s being rude."
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We heard the Vienna Symphony.
The Seasons are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in harmony with each other.