“No matter if you did!” Whitford retorted.
Mrs. Burton clasped her hands devoutly as Bruce divested himself of his overcoat. “We were just praying for another man to come in—and here you are!”
“And a man who’s terribly hard to get, if you ask me!” said Constance. “Come in to the fire. George, don’t let Mr. Storrs perish for a drink!”
“He shall have gallons!” replied Whitford, turning to a stand on which the materials for cocktail making were assembled. “We needed a fresh thirst in the party to give us a new excuse. ‘Stay me with flagons’!”
“Now, Bruce,” drawled Constance. “Did I ever call you Bruce before? Well, you won’t mind—say you don’t mind! Shep calls you by your first name, why not I?”
“This one is to dear old Shep—absent treatment!” said Mrs. Burton as she took her glass.
“Shep’s in Cincinnati,” Constance was explaining. “He went down on business yesterday and expected to be home for dinner tonight—but he wired this forenoon that he has to stay over. So first comes Nellie and then old George blows in, and we were wishing for another man to share our broth and porridge.”
“My beloved hubby’s in New York; won’t you be my beau, Mr. Storrs?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“Bruce!” Constance corrected her.
“All right, then, Bruce! I’m Nellie to all the good comrades.”