"The amateur accompaniment is very painful," he said winningly.
Kent took leave of the family earlier than was his custom, asserting that he had work to do.
The momentous date was now close at hand, and Turquand, who had not refused to be best man, had made a present that was lavish, all things considered. In the days that intervened, Humphrey and he found it impracticable to taboo the subject of the wedding; it was arranged that on the eve of the ceremony they should have a "bachelor dinner" by themselves, and subsequently smoke a few cigars together in a music-hall. Neither wanted anybody else, nor, in point of fact, did Humphrey know many men to invite. For time to attend the wedding the journalist had applied to his Editor on the grounds of "a bereavement," and as he watched Kent collect possessions, and pore over a Continental Bradshaw, and fondle the sacred ring, he was more than ever convinced that he had used the right term.
It was a wet evening—the eve of the wedding-day. A yellow mist hung over Soho, and a light rain had fallen doggedly since noon, turning the grease of the pavements to slush. On the moist air the smell of the jam clung persistently, and along the narrow streets fewer children played tip-cat than was usual in the district.
Kent's impedimenta were packed and labelled, and a brown-paper parcel among the litter contained the best man's new suit. The coat would be creased by the morrow, and he knew it; but he had a repugnance to undoing the parcel sooner than was compulsory, and once, when Kent was not looking, he had kicked it.
The two men put up their collars, and made their way across the square.
"Are you sure we'll go to the Suisse?" asked Kent. "It isn't festive, Turk."
"Yes, let's go to the Suisse," said Turquand grumpily. "It's close."
Both knew that its proximity was not the reason that it had been chosen, but the pretence was desirable.
"We'll have champagne, of course," said Humphrey, as they passed in, and took their seats at their customary little table, with its half-yard of crusty bread and damp napkins. "We'll have champagne, and—and be lively. For Heaven's sake don't look as if you were at a funeral, Turk! This is to be an enjoyable evening. Where's the wine-list?"