CHAPTER XXI
HIGH WORDS AT HIGH NOON
IN the Harrowby suite the holder of the title, a handsome and distinguished figure, adorned for his wedding, walked nervously the rather worn carpet. His brother, hastily pressed into service as best man, sat puffing at a cigar with a persistency which indicated a somewhat perturbed state of mind on his own part.
"Brace up, Allan," he urged. "It'll be over before you realize it. Remember my own wedding—gad, wasn't I frightened? Always that way with a man—no sense to it, but he just can't help it. Never forget that little parlor, with the flower of Marion society all about, and me with my teeth chattering and my knees knocking together."
"It is a bit of an ordeal," said Allan weakly. "Chap feels all sort of—gone—inside—"
The telephone, ringing sharply, interrupted. George Harrowby rose and stepped to it.
