“But. …”
“No.” Hamilton Beamish raised his hand. “You cannot go back on what you said. You stated in distinct terms that, if George had money, you would consent to the marriage.”
“And, anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said Molly. “Because I am going to marry him, no matter what anybody says.”
Mrs. Waddington capitulated.
“Very well! I am nobody, I see. What I say does not matter in the slightest.”
“Mother!” said George reproachfully.
“Mother?” echoed Mrs. Waddington, starting violently.
“Now that everything is so happily settled, of course I regard you in that light.”
“Oh, do you?” said Mrs. Waddington.
“Oh, I do,” said George.
Mrs. Waddington sniffed unpleasantly.
“I have been overwhelmed and forced into consenting to a marriage of which I strongly disapprove,” she said, “but I may be permitted to say one word. I have a feeling that this wedding will never take place.”
“What do you mean?” said Molly. “Of course it will take place. Why shouldn’t it?”
Mrs. Waddington sniffed again.
“Mr. Finch,” she said, “though a very incompetent artist, has lived for a considerable time in the heart of Greenwich Village and mingled daily with Bohemians of both sexes and questionable morals. …”
“What are you hinting?” demanded Molly.
“I am not hinting,” replied Mrs. Waddington with dignity. “I am saying. And what I am saying is this. Do not come to me for sympathy if this Finch of yours turns out to have the sort of moral code which you might expect in one who deliberately and of his own free-will goes and lives near Washington Square. I say again, that I have a presentiment that this marriage will never take place. I had a similar presentiment regarding the wedding of my sister-in-law and a young man named John Porter. I said, ‘I feel that this wedding will never take place.’ And events proved me right. John Porter, at the very moment when he was about to enter the church, was arrested on a charge of bigamy.”
George uttered protesting noises.
“But my morals are above reproach.”
“So you say.”
“I assure you that, as far as women are concerned, I can scarcely tell one from another.”
“Precisely,” replied Mrs. Waddington, “what John Porter said when they asked him why he had married six different girls.”
Hamilton Beamish looked at his watch.
“Well, now that everything is satisfactorily settled. …”
“For the moment,” said Mrs. Waddington.
“Now that everything is satisfactorily settled,” proceeded Hamilton Beamish, “I will be leaving you. I have to get back and dress. I am speaking at a dinner of the Great Neck Social and Literary Society tonight.”
The silence that followed his departure was followed by a question from Sigsbee H. Waddington.
“Molly, my dear,” said Sigsbee H., “touching on that necklace. Now that this splendid young fellow turns out to be very rich, you will not want to sell it, of course?”
Molly reflected.
“Yes, I think I will. I never liked it much. It’s too showy. I shall sell it and buy something very nice with the money for George. A lot of diamond pins or watches or motorcars or something. And, whenever we look at them we will think of you, daddy dear.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Waddington huskily. “Thanks.”
“Seldom in my life,” observed Mrs. Waddington, coming abruptly out of the brooding coma into which she had sunk, “have I ever had a stronger presentiment than the one to which I alluded just now.”
“Oh, mother!” said George.
Hamilton Beamish, gathering up his hat in the hall, became aware that something was pawing at his sleeve. He looked down and perceived Sigsbee H. Waddington.
“Say!” said Sigsbee H. in a hushed undertone. “Say, listen!”
“Is anything the matter?”
“You bet your tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles something’s the matter,” whispered Sigsbee H. urgently. “Say, listen. Can I have a word with you? I want your advice.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“How long will you be before you start out for this Hoboken Clambake of yours?”
“The dinner of the Great Neck Social and Literary Society, to which I imagine you to allude, is at eight o’clock. I shall motor down, leaving my apartment at twenty minutes past seven.”
“Then it’s no good trying to see you tonight. Say, listen. Will you be home tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Right!” said Sigsbee H.
VI
I
“Say, listen!” said Sigsbee H. Waddington.
“Proceed,” said Hamilton Beamish.
“Say, listen!”
“I am all attention.”
“Say, listen!” said Mr. Waddington.
Hamilton Beamish glanced at his watch impatiently. Even at its normal level of imbecility, the conversation of Sigsbee H. Waddington was apt to jar upon his critical mind, and now, it seemed to him, the other was plumbing depths which even he had never reached before.
“I can give you seven minutes,” he said. “At the end of that period of time I must leave you. I am speaking at a luncheon of the Young Women Writers of America. You came here, I gather, to make a communication to me. Make it.”
“Say, listen!” said Sigsbee H.
Hamilton Beamish compressed his lips sternly. He had heard parrots with a more intelligent flow of conversation. He was conscious of a strange desire to beat this man over the head with a piece of lead-piping.
“Say, listen!” said Sigsbee H. “I’ve gone and got myself into the devil of a jam.”
“A position of embarrassment?”
“You said it!”
“State nature of same,” said Hamilton Beamish, looking at his watch again.
Mr. Waddington glanced quickly and nervously over his shoulder.
“It’s like this. You heard Molly say yesterday she was going to sell those pearls.”
“I did.”
“Well, say, listen!” said Mr. Waddington, lowering his voice and looking apprehensively about him once more, “They aren’t pearls!”
“What are they, then?”
“Fakes!”
Hamilton Beamish winced.
“You mean imitation stones?”
“That’s just what I do mean. What am I going to do about it?”
“Perfectly simple. Bring an action against the jeweller who sold them to you as genuine.”
“But they were genuine then. You don’t seem to get the position.”
“I do not.”
Sigsbee H. Waddington moistened his lips.
“Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood,
