Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin’ at once.  Robbie was real modest that way.  But she sure did have ’em all busy.  If it was a sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin’.  Mother used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids were absurd.  Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a few months over nineteen.

But young Mr. Talbot had it bad.  Besides, he’d always got about what he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest.  So the first thing Mother and Father knew they were bein’ interviewed.  Robbie had half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he wanted to know how about it.  Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the information prompt.  He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which Mother wept and took the young gent’s part.  Robbie blew in just then and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted and put it square up to her.  Then she pouted and locked herself in her room.  That’s when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn’t give him any decision, either.

So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin’, Mother havin’ a case of nerves, Father nursin’ a grouch, and Nick Talbot mopin’ around doleful.  Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin’, with the flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear for anything.  Robbie perked up and asked for details.  Inside of an hour she was plannin’ what she would wear.  Late in the afternoon Nick heard the glad news himself, through a third party.

First off the date was set for early next spring, when she’d be twenty.  That was Father’s dope; although Mother was willin’ it should be pulled off around Christmas time.  Nick, he stuck out for the first of October; but Robbie says: 

“Oh, pshaw!  There won’t be any flowers then, and we’ll be back in town.  Why not week after next?”

So that’s the compromise fin’lly agreed on.  The moonlight stunt had to be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to—­and believe me it was some classy hitchin’ bee!

They’d been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin’ the incident closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin’ her eyes.  Then there’s a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard’s downtown number, and Mr. Robert has a confab with him over the ’phone.  Next comes three lively rings for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office.  Mr. Robert is sittin’ scowlin’, makin’ savage’ jabs with a paper knife at the blotter pad.

“Torchy,” says he, “I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix.”