The Dinner Club

"THE trouble in my game," he began, "is that the greatest plays can never be staged. There would be no money in them. The public demand a plot-a climax: after that the puppets cease strutting, the curtain rings down. But in life-in real life-there's no plot. It's just a series of anti-climaxes strung together like a patchwork quilt, until there comes the greatest anti-climax of all and the quilt is finished." He passed his hand through his fast-greying hair, and stared for a moment or two at the fire. The Soldier was filling his pipe; the Writer, his legs stretched in front of him, had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets. "It's one of the patches in one of the quilts that my story is about," continued the actor thoughtfully. "Just an episode in the life of a woman-or shall I say, just the life of a woman in an episode? "You remember that play of mine-'John Pendlesham's Wife'?" He turned to the Barrister, who nodded. "Very well," he answered. "Molly Travers was your leading lady." "I was out of England," said the Soldier. "Never saw it." "It's immaterial." The Actor lit a cigarette. "The play itself has nothing to do with my story, except indirectly. But as you didn't see it, I will just explain this much. I, of course, was John Pendlesham-Molly was my wife, and the third act constituted what, in my opinion, was the finest piece of emotional acting which that consummate actress has ever done in her career." The Writer nodded. "I agree. She was superb."