"Very well," says he. "Let's go back to the office. And by the way,
Marston, when you get to that song of Mabel's hold it until I'm through
with this young man."

And when he's towed me to the manager's sanctum he demands: "Well,
what's gone wrong with Louise?"

"Nothing much," says I, "except that Miss Polly is plannin' to be
married soon."

"Married!" he gasps. "Polly? Why, she's only a child!"

"Not at half past nineteen," says I. "I should call her considerable
young lady."

"Well, I'll be blanked!" says he. "Little Polly grown up and wanting to
be married! She ought to be spanked instead. What are they after; my
consent, eh?"

"Oh, no," says I. "It's all settled. Twenty-fifth of next month at St.
Luke's. You're cast for the giving away act."

"Wh-a-at?" says he, his heavy under jaw saggin' astonished. "Me?"

"Fathers usually do," says I, "when they're handy."

"And in good standing," he adds. "You--er--know the circumstances, I
presume?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "Don't seem to make any difference to them, though.
They've got you down for the part. Church weddin', you know; big mob,
swell affair. I expect that's why they think everything ought to be
accordin' to Hoyle."

"Just a moment, young man," says he, breathin' a bit heavy. "I--I
confess this is all rather disturbing."

It was easy to see that. He's fumblin' nervous with a gold cigarette
case and his hand trembles so he can hardly hold a match. Maybe some of
that was due to his long record as a whiteway rounder. The puffy bags
under the eyes and the deep face lines couldn't have been worked up
sudden, though.

"Can you guess how long it has been since I have appeared in a church?"
he goes on. "Not since Louise and I were married. And I imagine I wasn't
a particularly appropriate figure to be there even then. I fear I've
changed some, too. Frankly now, young man, how do you think I would look
before the altar?"

"Oh, I'm no judge," says I. "And I expect that with a clean shave and in
a frock coat----"

"No," he breaks in, "I can't see myself doing it. Not before all that
mob. How many guests did you say?"

"Only a thousand or so," says I.

He shudders. "How nice!" says he. "I can hear 'em whispering to each
other: 'Yes that's her father--Dick Harry, you know. She divorced him,
and they say----' No, no, I--I couldn't do it. You tell Louise that----
Oh, by the way! What about her? She must have changed, too. Rather stout
by this time, I suppose