"But dad—look at him—he won't—p-promise," trembling into tears.
"Of course he will—won't you, Pelz? And you know the reputation your father has for a man of his word."
"Will—will he promise?"
"You do; don't you, Pelz?"
Again the nod from the bitter inverted features.
"Now, Miss Bleema?"
"Well then, I—I—p-promise."
On a May-day morning that was a kiss to the cheek and even ingratiated itself into the bale-smelling, truck-rumbling pier-shed, Mr. Lester Spencer, caparisoned for high seas by Fifth Avenue's highest haberdasher, stood off in a little cove of bags and baggage, yachting-cap well down over his eyes, the nattiest thing in nautical ulsters buttoned to the chin. Beside him, Miss Norma Beautiful, her small-featured pink-and-whiteness even smaller and pinker from the depths of a great cart-wheel of rose-colored hat, completely swathed in rose-colored veiling.
"For a snap of my finger I'd spill the beans—that's how stuck on this situation I am!"
Mr. Spencer plunged emphatic arms into large patch-pockets, his chin projecting beyond the muffle of collar.