“We will take the play. I have had it read.... We can do no more than bust.”
“This Fall—the production?”
“I will give it the Markheim in November.”
He seemed to be surprised that Morning did not emotionalize in some way. He had expected at least to be informed that “bust” was out of the question, and missed this mannerism of the playwright, now that the thing was his and not the other’s.... Moreover, Markheim was pleased with the way he had reached the decision. He wanted Morning to know.
“There was that difference of opinion.... Do you know what I did?”
Morning couldn’t imagine.
“Well,” said Markheim, sitting back, hands patting his girth, “those who have nothing but opinions—read your play. They like it; they like it not. It will pay. It will not pay. It is ‘revolutionary,’ ‘artistic,’ ‘well-knit,’ ‘good second act’—much rot it is, and is not. Who do you think settled the question?”
“Yourself?”
“Not me—I have no opinion.”
“Who then?”