I am almost gagged with the stage fright that grips me. It is the custom to toast back to the host and here I have been gulping down all kinds of toasts without a word. And he had been sitting there waiting for me.
I rise and hesitate. "Mr.—"
I feel a kick on the shins and I hear Mrs. Kaufman whisper hoarsely:
"Herr."
I think she means the bride-to-be. "Mrs.—" No, she isn't that yet. Heavens! this is terrible.
I plunge in fast and furious. "My very best respects to your future wife." As I speak I look at a young girl at the head of the table whom I thought was the lucky woman. I am all wrong. I sit, conscious of some horrible mistake.
He bows and thanks me. Mrs. Kaufman scowls and says: "That's not the woman. It's the one on the other side."
I have a suppressed convulsion and almost die, and as she points out the real bride-to-be I find myself laughing hysterically into my soup. Rita Kaufman is laughing with me. Thank heaven for a sense of humour.
I am so weak and nervous that I am almost tempted to leave at once. The bride-to-be is reaching for her glass to return my salute, though unless she thinks I am cross-eyed I don't see how she knows I said anything nice to her.
But she gets no chance to speak. There is launched a long-winded pedantic speech from the host, who says that on such rare occasions as this it is customary to uncork the best in the cellar. This point gets over in great shape and everybody is smiling.