"No motors!" exclaimed Mr. De Foe. There was a sudden silence in the room.
"The blizzard, sir," said Bellows, briefly.
"But, hang it all, we must get to the station," cried the groom. "What the devil's the meaning of all this?"
"Don't blame Bellows, old man," said Bosworth Van Pycke. "He isn't a blizzard. And don't lose your temper, either. Remember it's your wedding night. Now, I have a big sleigh coming for me at 10.30. Taxis can't budge in this weather. You and the bride can take my sleigh—"
He did not finish. Every man in the party had begun to berate the kind of car he owned and every woman was scolding the weather. Then there was a common demand for four-horse sleighs. Bellows received half a dozen orders to telephone to the garages and to the livery stables, all in the same breath, it seemed.
"Don't worry, Chaunce. My sleigh is sure to come. The bride is safe." So spoke the confident Mr. Van Pycke. "All I ask you to do in return is to send it back here for me as soon as you're safely there."
"You're an angel, Buzzy," cried the bride from the depths of her sables.
Just as the sleigh was announced, half an hour later, a diversion was created by the entrance of Mr. Van Pycke, senior. He was dressed for the street, fur-coated and gloved. The shout which greeted him brought him up just inside the door. He glared at the crowd.
"Where are you, Bosworth?" he called out, his voice husky with emotion.
"Here, father. Are you ready to go?" His son stepped forward rather quickly.