"Torchy," he goes on, "of course I've no particular right to be informed, being only his father, but—er—about how much longer should you say that affair would run before it comes to some sort of climax? In other words, how is he getting on?"
"The last I knew," says I, "he was comin' strong. Course, he made a couple of false starts there at the send-off, but now he seems to have struck his gait."
"Really!" says Old Hickory. "And now, solely in the interest of the Corrugated Trust, could you go so far as to predict a date when he might reasonably be expected to resume business activities?"
I chews that over a minute, and runs my fingers thoughtful through my red thatch.
"Nope," says I. "If I was any such prize guesser as that, I'd be down in Wall Street buckin' the market. Maybe after Sunday, though, I might make a report one way or the other."
"Ah! You scent a crisis, do you?" says he.
"It's this way," says I. "Marjorie's givin' a little week-end house party for 'em out at her place, and—well, you know how that's apt to work out at this stage of the game."
"You think it may end the agony?" says he.
"There'll be a swell chance for twosin'," says I. "Marjorie's plannin' for that."
"I see," says Mr. Ellins. "Undisturbed propinquity—a love charm that was old when the world was young. And if Marjorie is managing the campaign, it's all over with Robert."