"No," he breaks in, "I can't see myself doing it. Not before all that mob. How many guests did you say?"
"Only a thousand or so," says I.
He shudders. "How nice!" says he. "I can hear 'em whispering to each other: 'Yes that's her father—Dick Harry, you know. She divorced him, and they say——' No, no, I—I couldn't do it. You tell Louise that—— Oh, by the way! What about her? She must have changed, too. Rather stout by this time, I suppose?"
"I shouldn't say so," says I. "Course I don't know what she used to be, but I'd call her more or less classy."
"But she is—let me see—almost forty," he insists.
"You don't mean it?" says I, openin' my mouth to register surprise. This looked like a good line to me and I thought I'd push it. "Course," I goes on, "with a daughter old enough to wear orange blossoms, I might have figured that for myself. But I'll be hanged if she looks it. Why, lots of folks take her and Polly for sisters."
He's eatin' that up, you can see. "Hm-m-m!" says he, rubbin' his chin. "I suppose I would be expected to—er—meet her there?"
"I believe the program is for you to take her to the church and bring her back for the reception," says I. "Yes, you'd have a chance for quite a reunion."
"I wonder how it would seem, talking to Louise again," says he.
"Might be a little awkward at first," says I, "but——"