He was right. Up to then I hadn't heard much about Miss Hampton's fam'ly except that she was an orphan, and I expect Mr. Robert had an idea there wa'n't any nosey relations to butt in. But it ain't three days after the engagement got noised around that a cousin of Elsa's shows up, a Mrs. Montgomery Pulsifer—a swell party with a big place in the Berkshires.
Seems she'd been kind of cold and distant to Miss Hampton on account of her bein' a concert singer; but, now that Elsa has drawn down a prize like Robert Ellins, here comes Mrs. Pulsifer flutterin' to town, all smiles and greatly excited. Where was the wedding to be? And the reception? Not in this stuffy little hotel suite, she hopes! Why not at Crag Oaks, her place near Lenox? There was the dearest little ivy-covered church! And a perfectly charming rector!
Then Sister Marjorie is called in. Sure, she was strong for the frilly stuff. If Brother Robert had finally decided to be married, it must be done properly. And Mrs. Pulsifer's country house would be just the place. Only, she had an idea that their old fam'ly friend, the Bishop, ought to be asked to officiate. The perfectly charming rector might assist.
"Why, to be sure!" says Mrs. Pulsifer. "The Bishop, by all means."
Anyway, it went something like that; and the first thing Mr. Robert knows, they've doped out for him a regulation three-ring splicefest with all the trimmin's, from a gold-braided carriage caller to a special train for the Newport guests. And, bein' still busy with his rosy dreams, Mr. Robert don't get wise to what's been framed up for him until here Saturday afternoon out at Marjorie's, when they start to spring the programme on him.
"Why, see here, sis," says he, "you've put this three weeks off!"
"The bridesmaids' gowns can't be finished a day sooner," says Marjorie. "Besides, the invitations must be engraved; you can't get a caterer like Marselli at a moment's notice; and there is the organ to be installed, you know."
"Organ!" protests Mr. Robert. "Oh, I say!"
"You don't expect the Lohengrin March to be played on drums, I hope," said Marjorie. "Do be sensible! You've been best man times enough to know that——"
"Great Scott, yes," says Mr. Robert. "But really, sis, I don't want to go through all that dreary business—dragging in to the wedding-march, with everyone looking solemn and holding their breath while they stare at you! Why, it's deadly! Gloomy, you know; a relic of barbarism worthy of some savage tribe."