“Of course.”
“Still,” exclaimed Oscar Findlater, struck by a happy thought, “we could bring out the last three posthumously.”
“Posthumously,” echoed Saunders Rook, sepulchrally. At that second came again the impulse to say, “But, of course, this is all in fun.” He stifled it. After all, it was something to have essays in “The Liberal Voice,” even posthumously. “How long should they be?” Saunders Rook found himself asking carelessly.
“Oh, about three thousand words; more if necessary. Not too heavy in tone, of course, or morbid. Readable, you know, almost chatty; but with an underlying strain of philosophy.”
“Precisely,” said Saunders Rook.
“We’ll want the first one immediately,” said the editor.
“You shall have it,” promised Saunders Rook.
He could not but note the admiration, almost awe, in the circle of eyes. He was wise enough to depart before the spell was broken.
“Well,” he said, rising, “I think I’ll run along to bed now. Can’t be too careful of my health, you know.” He tossed this last sentence off with a grim smile. He was full of inspiration tonight.
The members crowded around him.