Balcome glared. "Let me tell you this," he went on, as if to the room in general, "if Hattie's going to act like her mother, she'd better stop the whole business today." He sat down.
"Now, Brother Balcome,"—this pleadingly.
"Don't call me brother!" shouted Mr. Balcome.
That shout, like a shot, brought Mrs. Balcome down. She plumped upon the sofa. "Oh, now you see what I have to bear!" she wailed. "Now, you understand! Oh! Oh!" She buried her face in the coat of the convenient Babette.
Mrs. Milo hastened to her, soothing, imploring. And Balcome rose, to pace the floor, flapping at his knee with each step.
"Now, you see what I have to bear," he mocked. "My only daughter marries, and her mother brings that hunk of hydrophobia to rehearsal."
At this critical juncture, with Mrs. Balcome's weeping gaining in volume, a gay voice sounded from the library—"Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot!" The library door opened, disclosing Sue. She let the doorway frame her, and waited, inviting attention. She was no longer in her simple work-dress. Silk and net and lace—this was her bridesmaid's gown.
Balcome's face widened in a grin. "By Jove, you look fine!"
"Thanks to you!"
"Shush! Shush!" He shook hands. "Not married yet?"