"If I must dress, then I don't see what there is informal about it,"
argued her husband, with another glance at his watch. "My idea of
informality is not a white necktie and pumps. But I suppose I'll have
to submit."

He came around the table, and Ellen rose to receive his parting kiss.
With his arm about her shoulder, and his chin--that particularly resolute
chin--touching her hair, he looked at Martha. "Go on with your abominable
society stunt," said he. "I'll agree to be there--if I can."

His eyes sparkled with mischief, as Martha jumped up, crying anxiously:

"Oh, that's just it, Red! You _must_ be there! We can't have any excuses
of operations or desperately sick patients. We never yet had you at so
much as a family dinner that you didn't get up and go away, or else
weren't even there at all. Even your wedding had to be postponed three
hours. That won't do at this kind of an affair. Ellen can't be a bridal
pair, all by herself!"

"Can't she?" His arm tightened about his wife's shoulders. "Well, I'll
tell you what I'll do. If I have to leave suddenly I'll take her with me.
That'll make it all right and comfortable. If you and Jim will retire
too, the company can have a glorious time talking us over."

He stooped, whispered something in Ellen's ear, laughing as he did so,
then kissed her, nodded at Martha, and departed. From the other side of
the closed door came back to them a gay, whistled strain from a popular
Irish song.

"He's just as hopeless as ever," Martha complained. "I thought you would