“But I don’t want any boots,” cried David. “Besides——”
“What d’you mean?” said Crispin. “You can’t be married in your socks. To-morrow morning Nell and I are going down the Edgware Road to choose your wedding foot-joy—a good-looking pair of roomy, elastic-sided, banana-coloured boots; and if we should see a nice pair of trousers . . .”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar of laughter.
When order had been restored—
“They must each,” said Madge shakily, “make a list of what they need and where they’ld like the things got. Who’s your bootmaker, David?”
“Stoop.”
“Very well. Nell and Crispin’ll go to Stoop, and Nell’ll order some boots. Stoop’s got your last, and Crispin, being a man, will keep her straight. In the same way, you and I’ll go to Zyrot’s and you shall pick out some hats. They can be tried on me, and I’ll supervise your choice.”
“That’s all very well,” said David, “but I know Crispin’s ideas of humour, and——”
“I give you my word,” said his host, “I’ll do you a treat. Nell shan’t get a blinkin’ thing I wouldn’t be glad of myself. It’ll be for her, of course, to choose the engagement ring.” He turned to Eleanor. “Oh, you shall have a snorter.” The unfortunate Herrick blenched. “I think, perhaps, you’d better have two—just in case you lose one.”
Madge Willoughby began to shake with laughter.