“All right,” said Norman. “What do you want me for?”
“I want you to assist at my wedding,” said Trafford.
Norman stared, then laughed. “That’s a good joke!” he said.
“A wedding is seldom a joke, to the bridegroom, at any rate,” said Trafford. “I’m quite in earnest. I wonder you haven’t heard of it!”
Norman stared still harder. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Do you really mean it? Going to be married! Well! Well, of all the— Going to be married! and to-morrow! No; how should I hear of it? They don’t get the society papers where I’ve been. Who is she? Not Ada?”
Trafford’s brows knit, and he rose and took a turn up and down the room.
“No, no,” he said. “It is a Miss Chetwynde.”
“Chetwynde?” said Norman. “I don’t remember the name. Do I know her?”
“No,” said Trafford.