Just why he said that he did not know. It must have been sheer inspiration. As a matter of fact, he had never contemplated doing anything of the kind. He had never demanded much of life; his existence was not rigorous, but placid. He was a sub-editor on a woman’s magazine—he conducted the etiquette page—and this brought him twelve hundred dollars a year. He had inherited an income of twelve hundred more. He was able to live in modest comfort, for he was an orphan and a bachelor; he had a season ticket to the opera; his health was good. If he had a cross, it was a light one: minor editors of minor magazines usually rejected his minor essays, imitations of Charles Lamb, hymning the joys of pipe-smoking and pork-chops. So it startled him not a little to hear himself announcing his imminent self-destruction.
But it produced the desired effect with an electrical suddenness. The lull became a hush; not only the group at his own long table, but other groups had heard, and the eyes of the entire room were directed to the man with the wan mustache.
“But, my dear fellow,” cried Max Skye, “you don’t really mean that.”
Saunders Rook curbed an exigent impulse to recant on the spot, and replied firmly:
“But I do mean it.”
A woman member in a far corner called:
“Would you mind repeating what you said? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
Saunders Rook cleared his throat and said again,
“On the Fourth of July I shall commit suicide.”
The members began to shift their chairs so that they could more plainly see and hear him.