Rapidly she made lists of the most important guests, those to be notified first.
“We can’t tell half the people,” she said, in despair. “They’ll have to go to the church and go away again. Oh, I wish now I hadn’t decided on a church wedding! It would have been easier at the house. Well, I shall have the minister come here anyway, and then if Kim comes at the last minute,—or later, even,—we can be married here. Fenn, we’ll wait till two o’clock,—or shall we say half-past?”
She looked so wistful that Gerty cried, “Oh, do wait till three!”
“No,” Elsie decided, “half-past two, and not a second later. Then, as we’ve only one telephone, and I shall use that, you take this list, Gerty, and go out somewhere, into some other apartment, I mean, and rattle them off. Mother, you take this, and do the same. Fenn, here’s yours. You see, I’ve listed the necessary names; if you think of others, follow up with them. We can’t head off the caterers, but they needn’t send the waiters—”
“My dear child,” said her mother, “don’t think of those things! I’ll see to the caterer’s people.”
“All right, mother,—oh, poppet, you do look so sweet!”
This last was spoken to Elsie’s niece and godchild, who ran in just then, partly dressed in her wedding finery. She was to be flower-girl, and never tired of practising her rôle.
The sight of the baby figure, dancing about—upset Elsie entirely, and Gerty rose quickly and carried her daughter away.
“Now,” Elsie, resumed, with a glance at the clock, “the Webbs must tell their own friends and relatives. You go and telephone Henrietta now, Fenn, that she must begin at half-past two to notify them that there will be no wedding.”
The finality of this made Elsie’s voice quiver, but she went on bravely.