"Well, I'll be blanked!" says he. "Little Polly grown up and wanting to be married! She ought to be spanked instead. What are they after; my consent, eh?"
"Oh, no," says I. "It's all settled. Twenty-fifth of next month at St. Luke's. You're cast for the giving away act."
"Wh-a-at?" says he, his heavy under jaw saggin' astonished. "Me?"
"Fathers usually do," says I, "when they're handy."
"And in good standing," he adds. "You—er—know the circumstances, I presume?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "Don't seem to make any difference to them, though. They've got you down for the part. Church weddin', you know; big mob, swell affair. I expect that's why they think everything ought to be accordin' to Hoyle."
"Just a moment, young man," says he, breathin' a bit heavy. "I—I confess this is all rather disturbing."
It was easy to see that. He's fumblin' nervous with a gold cigarette case and his hand trembles so he can hardly hold a match. Maybe some of that was due to his long record as a whiteway rounder. The puffy bags under the eyes and the deep face lines couldn't have been worked up sudden, though.
"Can you guess how long it has been since I have appeared in a church?" he goes on. "Not since Louise and I were married. And I imagine I wasn't a particularly appropriate figure to be there even then. I fear I've changed some, too. Frankly now, young man, how do you think I would look before the altar?"
"Oh, I'm no judge," says I. "And I expect that with a clean shave and in a frock coat——"