"All right, Dad, I'm coming.... But, where's Allie? I refuse to be married without Allie."
Fanshaw drank down his cocktail and followed. Behind him he heard a voice still whining, "I don't know where to put my pearls." He pulled the door to and started down the stairs beside a black toque with a cockade like a Westpointer's in it.
"My," the girl was saying, "You should have seen the rehearsal of the ceremony this morning. It was a scream. Everybody got the giggles so we couldn't go on."
"Sh-sh," went someone. Everything was quiet but for the rustle of dresses, an occasional cough or a sound of creaky tiptoeing. They were packed into a long drawing room down the middle of which an aisle had been made by a row of little orange trees in pots. Fanshaw flattened himself against the wall beside a picture that he was in constant fear of knocking down. The string orchestra grouped about the piano in the far corner behind the palms struck up. Everybody craned their necks.
"That's the overture," whispered someone.
"What, deary?" came in broken elderly tones.
"The overture, Mother,... Beethoven."
"Ah, Beethoven."
"Sh-sh."
The overture stopped. In the silence feverish whispering was heard in the hall and a man's voice loud and angry: "And for Heaven's sake don't forget which pocket it's in."