In the evening I went to the Metropolitan Opera for the opening night of the season. Huge crowds were out on the streets celebrating the victory, dancing and jigging with tipsy sailors whom the girls kissed with deep and voluptuous abandon. In the crush someone threw confetti in my eyes and a drunk soldier knocked off my top hat, never to be seen again. I went in to Bolm's apartment and borrowed another one.

The Metropolitan was all evening dress and décolleté, not a seat but was occupied by persons in possession of millions. The singers were famous and the opera, Samson et Dalila, tedious with uninspired settings. I did not stay long.