Which was where Bruce Mackey, usually a mild sort of party and kind of retirin', had come forward with the balky behavior. "What do you think?" says Mrs. Bruce. "He says he won't go near the church." "Eh?" demands Mr. Robert, turnin' to him. "What do you mean by that, Bruce?" Mr. Mackey shakes his head stubborn. "Think I can stand up there before a thousand or more people and give Polly away?" says he. "No. I--I simply can't do it." "But why not?" insists Mrs. Robert. "Well, she isn't my daughter," says he, "and it isn't my place to be there. Dick should do it." "But don't you see, Bruce," protests Mrs. Mackey, "that if he did I--I should have to--to meet him again?" "What of it?" says Bruce. "It isn't likely he'd beat you in church. And as he is Polly's father he ought to be the one to give her away. That's only right and proper, as I see it." And there was no arguin' him out of that notion. He came from an old Scotch Presbyterian family. Bruce Mackey did, and while he was easy goin' about most things now and then he'd bob up with some hard-shell ideas like this. Principles, he called 'em. Couldn't get away from 'em. "But just think, Bruce," goes on Mrs. Mackey, "we haven't seen each other for ever so many years. I--I wouldn't like it at all." "Hope you wouldn't," says Bruce. "But I see no other way. You ought to go to the church with him, and he ought to bring you home afterwards. He needn't stay for the reception unless he wants to. But as Polly's father----" "Oh, don't go over all that again," she breaks in. "I suppose I must do it. That is, if he's willing. I'll write him and ask if he is." "No," says Bruce. "I don't think you ought to write. This is such a personal matter and a letter might seem--well, too formal." "What shall I do, then?" demands Mrs. Mackey. "Telephone?" "I hardly think one should telephone a message of that sort," says Bruce. "Someone ought to see him, explain the situation, and get his reply directly." "Then you go, Bruce, dear," suggests Mrs. Mackey. No, he shies at that. "Dick would resent my coming on such an errand," says Bruce. "Besides, I should feel obliged to urge him that it was his duty to go, and if he feels inclined to refuse---- Well, of course, we have done our part." "Then you rather hope he'll refuse to come?" she asks. "I don't allow myself to think any such thing," says Bruce. "It wouldn't be right. But if he should decide not to it would be rather a relief, wouldn't it? In that ease I suppose I should be obliged to act in his stead. He ought to be asked, though." Mr. Robert chuckles. "I wish I had an acrobatic conscience such as yours, Bruce," says he. "I could amuse myself for hours watching it turn flip-flops." "Too bad yours died so young," Bruce raps back at him.