"An eighth?" echoed Mr. Goodchild, almost amiably, thinking, of one-eighth of one per cent.
"Of June!" said H. R. "That gives you ample time for everything, Grace. And, remember, give the reporters the detailed list of the trousseau."
"There isn't going to be any marriage. And there isn't going to be any nauseating newspaper articles with pictures of intimate lingerie enough to make a decent man blush."
"A really decent man always blushes with shame when he does not give carte blanche to his only daughter," said H. R. with great dignity.
"Mr.—er—Rogers," said Mrs. Goodchild.
"Rutgers," corrected her prospective son-in-law. "The 'g' is hard. It's Dutch, like Roosevelt, Van Rensselaer, and Cruger."
"But we don't know anything about your family," she said, very seriously.
"Do you know," asked H. R., pleasantly, "the Wittelbachs?"
"It's beer, isn't it?" she said. It might be the best brewing blood in Christendom, but still it wasn't Wall Street or real estate.
"Good shot!" exclaimed H. R., admiringly. "It is the patronymic of the reigning house of Bavaria. You know, Munich, where beer is the thing. And do you know the Bernadottes?"