Part 9 (1/2)

”Don't you like him?”--soothingly.

”Not well enough to give my daughter to him.”

”Well,” simpered Mrs. Balcome, all elephantine playfulness, ”we mustn't expect perfection in our son-in-laws. Though Wallace is wonderful--isn't he, Hattie?”

Hattie's back was turned. ”I--I suppose so,” she answered, low.

”You suppose so!” Mrs. Balcome was shocked. ”I must say, Hattie, you're taking this whole thing very calmly--very. And right in front of the boy's mother!”

”Sue is perfectly contented,”--it was Mrs. Milo once more--”perfectly happy. And besides, she's a little older than Mr. Farvel.” This with a note of satisfaction.

Mrs. Balcome stroked the dog. ”What's a year or two,” she urged.

”Not in a man's life. But in a woman's, a year is like five--at Sue's time of life.”

”Those make the happiest kind of marriages,” persisted Mrs. Balcome; ”--the very happiest.”

Again Mrs. Milo's voice rose stridently. ”Please drop the subject,”

she begged.

Mrs. Balcome struggled up. ”Oh, very well. But you know, my dear, that a woman finds her real happiness in marriage. Because after all is said and done, marriage----”

”Mr. John Balcome,” announced Dora, appearing from the vestibule.

As if knocked breathless by a blow, Mrs. Balcome cut short her sentence, went rigid, and clutched the loose coat of the poodle so tightly that four short legs stood out stiff, and two small eyes became mere slits.

Mrs. Milo met the emergency. ”Oh, yes, Dora,” she said sweetly; and flashed her guest a look of warning.

”Till rehearsal,” went on Dora, in a mournful sing-song, ”Mr. Balcome prefers to remain on the sidewalk.”

Mrs. Milo pretended not to understand. ”Oh, we don't mind his cigar,”

she protested. ”Ask him in.” And as the girl trailed out, ”I do hope your husband won't say anything to that child. She takes the Scriptures so--so literally.”

Hattie crossed to her mother. ”Shan't I carry Babette upstairs?” she asked.

”No!” Mrs. Balcome jerked rudely away.

”But she annoys father.”

”Why do you think I brought her?”

”Oh!--Well, in that case, please don't let me interfere.” She went out, banging a door.

”Now! Now!” pleaded Mrs. Milo, lifting entreating hands.

Balcome entered. He was a large man, curiously like his wife in type, for he had the same florid stoutness, the same rather small and pale eye. His well-worn sack suit hung on him loosely. He carried a large soft hat in one hand, and with it he continually flopped nervously at a knee. As he caught sight of the two women, he twisted his face into a scowl.

Mrs. Milo, all smiles, and with outstretched hands, floated toward him in her most graceful manner. ”Ah, Brother Balcome!” she cried warmly.

Balcome halted, seized her left hand, gave it a single shake, dropped it, and stalked across the drawing-room head in air. ”Don't call me brother,” he said crossly.