The Early Ayn Rand

[Doorbell rings. CURTISS opens the door. HARVEY FLEMING stands on the threshold. He is a man in his late forties, tall, gaunt, disreputably unkempt. He looks like anything but an "important" guest: he needs a shave, his clothes need pressing; he is not drunk, but not quite sober. He carries a small, battered overnight bag. He stands for a moment, studying the room glumly]

CURTISS: [Bowing] Good afternoon, sir. Come right in, sir.

FLEMING: [Enters, without removing his hat. Snaps glumly:] Billy arrived yet?

CURTISS: Yes, sir.

BRECKENRIDGE: [Advancing toward FLEMING with a broad smile] Well, Harvey! Greetings and welcome. Harvey, I want you to meet —

FLEMING: [Nods curtly in the general direction of BRECKENRIDGE and SERGE] Hello.

[To CURTISS] Where's Billy's room?

CURTISS: This way, sir.

[FLEMING exits with him through door Right, without a glance at the others]

SERGE: [A little indignant] But what is the matter?

BRECKENRIDGE: You mustn't mind him, Serge. He is a very unhappy man. [Looks impatiently in the direction of the music] I do wish Tony would stop playing.

SERGE: It is so sad, this piece. It is not appropriate today.

BRECKENRIDGE: Ask him to stop, will you?

[SERGE exits Right while BRECKENRIDGE continues rearranging the room. The music stops. SERGE returns, followed by TONY GODDARD. TONY is young, tall, slender, modestly dressed, and a little high-strung, which he does his best to conceal. BRECKENRIDGE speaks gaily:]

Did you notice that there's a phonograph right by the piano, Tony? Why didn't you put on a record by Egon Richter? He plays that piece ever so much better. TONY: It was the record.

BRECKENRIDGE: Well, well! That's one on me.

TONY: I know you don't like to hear me playing.

BRECKENRIDGE: I? Why shouldn't I, Tony?

TONY: I'm sorry... [Indifferently, but not at all offensively] Have I wished you a happy birthday, Mr. Breckenridge?

BRECKENRIDGE: Yes, of course you have. When you arrived. Why, Tony! How unflattering!

TONY: Guess I shouldn't have asked. Makes it worse. I always do things like that.

BRECKENRIDGE: Anything wrong, Tony?

TONY: No. No. [Listlessly] Where are our host and hostess?

BRECKENRIDGE: [With a broad smile] They haven't arrived.

TONY: Not yet?

BRECKENRIDGE: No.

TONY: Isn't that rather peculiar?

BRECKENRIDGE: Why, no. Mrs. Dawson asked me to take care of everything — it was very kind of her, she wanted so much to please me.

SERGE: It is unusual, no? — your preparing the party for your own birthday in the house of somebody else?

BRECKENRIDGE: Oh, the Dawsons are old friends of mine — and they insisted that they wanted to give the party and give it here.

TONY: Well, the house isn't old. It doesn't look as if they'd ever lived in it.

BRECKENRIDGE: It was built very recently.

STEVE INGALLS: [From the top of the stairway] And in very bad taste.

[INGALLS is a man of about forty, tall and lean, with a hard, inscrutable face. He looks like a man who should have great energy— and his appearance is a contrast to his manner and movements: slow, lazy, casual, indifferent. He wears simple sports clothes. He comes lazily down the stairs, while BRECKENRIDGE speaks sharply, looking up at him:]

BRECKENRIDGE: Was that necessary, Steve?

INGALLS: Not at all. They could have chosen a better architect.

BRECKENRIDGE: That's not what I meant.

INGALLS: Don't be obvious, Walter. Was there ever a time when I didn't know what you meant? [To TONY] Hello, Tony. You here, too? As was to be expected. Sacrificial offerings — needed at one's birthday party.

SERGE: [Stiffly] It is Mr. Breckenridge's birthday party.

INGALLS: So it is.

SERGE: If you think you -

BRECKENRIDGE: Please, Serge. Really, Steve, do let's drop the personal remarks just for today, shall we? Particularly about the house and particularly when the Dawsons arrive.

INGALLS: When or if?