"Fumed eggs," said Bean, feeling witty. He affected to laugh at his own jest as he perceived that the mourning mother had entered the room. Breede drew cautiously away from him. Mrs. Breede nodded to him bravely.
He mentioned the name of the world's greatest pitcher, with an impulse to take the woman down a bit.
"Get our shirts same place; he's going to have a suit just like this—no, like another one I have in that little old steamer trunk."
He was aware that they all eyed him too closely. The waster winked at him. Then he found himself shaking hands with a soothing old gentleman in clerical garb who called him his young friend and said that this was indeed a happy moment.
The three Breedes and the waster stood apart, studying him queerly. He was feeling an embarrassed need to make light conversation, and he was still conscious of that strange power to make it. He was going to tell the old gentleman, whose young friend he was, that fumed eggs were a hundred p'cent efficient.
But the flapper saved him from that. She came in, quiet but businesslike, and in a low yet distinct voices said she wished it to be perfectly over at once. She did not relax her grasp of Bean's arm after she approached him, and he presently knew that something solemn was going on in which he was to be seriously involved.
"Say, 'I do,'" muttered the old gentleman, and Bean did so. The flapper had not to be told.
There followed a blurred and formal shaking of his hand by those present, and the big sister whom he had not noticed before came up and kissed him.
Then he was conscious of the flapper still at his side. He turned to her and was amazed to discover that she was blinking tears from her eyes.
"There, there!" he muttered soothingly, and took her in his arms quite as if they were alone. He held her closely a moment, with little mumbled endearments, softly patting her cheek.