"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."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"No, no!" says he. "This is a personal affair, and--well, it's
embarrassing, to say the least."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"It's about Roberta," says he.

"What--again?" says I. "But I thought they was travelin' abroad?"