The name seemed to drop into a well of silence.
Vickery had forgotten for the moment the feud of the two men. The silence recalled it to him. He spoke with vexation:
“Good Lord, people! haven’t you got over that ancient trouble yet? When a grudge gets more than so old the board of health ought to cart it away. Eldon’s got over it, I know. A year or two ago he was telling me how kindly he felt toward Sheila and how he didn’t really blame Bret.”
Bret was not at all obliged for Eldon’s magnanimity, but Vickery went on singing Eldon’s praises till he noticed the profound silence of his auditors. He suddenly felt as if he had been speaking in an empty room. He saw that Bret was sullen and Sheila uneasy. Vickery spread the praise a little thicker in sheer vexation.
“Reben is going to star Eldon the minute he finds his play. I’m hoping I can fit him with this. He’s on the way up and I want to ride up on his coat-tails. He’s a gentleman, a scholar, an athlete—”
“But, after all, he’s an actor,” sniffed Bret.
“So was Shakespeare, the noblest mind in English literature.”
“I don’t care for the type,” said Bret. “Always posing, always talking about themselves.”
“Thanks, dear,” said Sheila, flushing.
“Oh, I don’t mean you, honey,” Bret expostulated. “That’s why I loved you—you almost never talk about yourself. You’re everything that’s fine.”