"Nothing much," says I, "except that Miss Polly is plannin' to be married soon." "Married!" he gasps. "Polly? Why, she's only a child!" "Not at half past nineteen," says I. "I should call her considerable young lady." "Well, I'll be blanked!" says he. "Little Polly grown up and wanting to be married! She ought to be spanked instead. What are they after; my consent, eh?" "Oh, no," says I. "It's all settled. Twenty-fifth of next month at St. Luke's. You're cast for the giving away act." "Wh-a-at?" says he, his heavy under jaw saggin' astonished. "Me?" "Fathers usually do," says I, "when they're handy." "And in good standing," he adds. "You--er--know the circumstances, I presume?" "Uh-huh," says I. "Don't seem to make any difference to them, though. They've got you down for the part. Church weddin', you know; big mob, swell affair. I expect that's why they think everything ought to be accordin' to Hoyle." "Just a moment, young man," says he, breathin' a bit heavy. "I--I confess this is all rather disturbing." It was easy to see that. He's fumblin' nervous with a gold cigarette case and his hand trembles so he can hardly hold a match. Maybe some of that was due to his long record as a whiteway rounder. The puffy bags under the eyes and the deep face lines couldn't have been worked up sudden, though. "Can you guess how long it has been since I have appeared in a church?" he goes on. "Not since Louise and I were married. And I imagine I wasn't a particularly appropriate figure to be there even then. I fear I've changed some, too. Frankly now, young man, how do you think I would look before the altar?" "Oh, I'm no judge," says I. "And I expect that with a clean shave and in a frock coat----" "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."