“Good idea,” added Mr Riggs. “I was just thinking of it myself. A health to the bride, my boy, and good luck to you both.”
“A glass to prosperity,” said Mr Dawes, with a wave of his hand.
“And two for posterity,” added Mr Riggs in an ecstasy of triumph.
A flush mounted to Brood's cheek. Young Frederic abruptly turned away.
“Thank you, my friends,” said Brood, after a moment. “I'll leave the bumpers to you, if you don't mind. It isn't meet that the groom should drink to himself, and that's what you are suggesting. Go and have your drinks, gentlemen, but leave me out.”
They looked disappointed, aggrieved.
“I said posterity,” expostulated Mr Riggs. “No harm in your drinking to that, is there?”
“Shut up, Riggs,” hissed Mr Dawes, nudging him with some violence.
“Oh!” said his friend, with a quick look at Frederic. Then, as if inspired: “Come on, Freddy. Join us. Come and drink to the—to your—er—stepmother.” He floundered miserably. “My God!” he gasped under his breath.
“Thank you, Mr Riggs. I'm not drinking,” said Frederic.