THE WORLD IS A WEDDING
the midnight supper and rejoicing in Mrs. Kish's question. Laura
pampered each of them in his stubborn idiosyncrasy of taste. Edmund
liked his coffee light, Rudyard liked
his
very strong, Ferdinand would
only drink Chinese tea, Edmund insisted on toast, although most of
them liked pumpernickel bread best of
all.
Laura provided what each
of them liked best, which did not prevent her from being ironic about
their preferences and assuming the appearance of one who begrudges
and denies
all
generous indulgence and attention.
"How beautiful," said Rudyard loudly without raising his gaze
from his manuscript book, "and yet no one likes this play, not even
my intimate friends. But in a generation or in fifty years, it will be
cheered as the best dramatic work of the century!"
Marcus Gross strode in,
his
entrances being at once loud and
founded on the assumption that he had been present all evening.
"The theater in which your plays are performed," he said,
"ought to be named
Posterity."
"Very good," said Rudyard, "you may think that you are at–
tacking me, but I regard that as one of the finest things ever said
about an author!"
It
was felt that this was a perfect reply.
Between Rudyard and Marcus an antagonism had long existed,
excited for the most part by Rudyard's open contempt for Marcus,
who admired Rudyard very much, but was forced to conceal his
admiration.
"You are absolutely safe," said Marcus, responding to the
laughter, "you are taking no risk whatever. We will all be dead
before anyone knows if you are right or wrong."
"I know now," said Rudyard serenely, never admitting the small
doubts which on occasion overtook him and suppressing
his
anguish
at not being recognized as a great playwright.
"The fact is," said Jacob half-aloud, thinking of the life which
they lived, "we do not have very much of a choice.
It
is a question
of your money or your life, the Mexican bandit's question. We have
a choice between doing what we don't want to do or doing nothing."
"Last week," said Lloyd Tyler, the boy of the circle, and the
most silent one, "my father bought his yearly ticket in . the Irish
Sweepstakes and it all began again, just the same as every other
year."
285
