A Messe de Mariage seems to be some kind of a wedding march, and
a bishop who is a real hot dog won't issue a certificate unless
the band plays the Messe. Mr. Percy Harold kept right on talking
about Jack Hayes being so desperately in love with Mrs. Hardy-
Steele, and how late they were getting home from the Opera the
other night, and what a shame it was, as Mr. Steele seemed like
such a nice fellow. There I stood like a Harlem goat. I couldn't
cut in, because I have so many troubles of my own getting home
from any place at all that I haven't time to keep tab on other
people. I must be as slow getting onto a scandal as the injured
husband. If 115,000 people know something about a woman, my
number is 14,999, and the husband's number is 15,000. It seems
strange, but the husband always seems to get wise last.

But to return to the girl with the electric eyes. I hung around in
that sad dress suit like a big dub, hoping that the conversation
would finally get switched to theaters or dogs or sparring, or
something where I could make good, but Mr. Harold had the floor,
and he certainly had me looking like a dirty deuce in a new deck.
I stood for him till he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, fudge!" because
he had forgotten one of his rings, and there was where I took to
the tall timbers. If I were a ring I wouldn't let a guy like that
wear me. Now will you kindly tell me why it is that a girl will
throw a good fellow down every time for one of those Lizzie boys?
If I thought there were enough men in the country who feel as
I do, I would start "The American Union for the Suppression of
Lizzie Boys."

Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the
smoking-room. I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me