Miss Buncle Married by D. E. Stevenson Page B

not want to come after being severely reprimanded, not to say hauled over the coals by his uncle for his idiotic behavior) so Mr. Abbott said vaguely:
    â€œYou don’t know Sam,” meaning of course that Sam was a bit of a problem, and that you never knew where you were with him. But Barbara took his words literally (as she always took everything) and replied instantly:
    â€œOh, yes, I do. I saw him at the wedding—and his mother, too. Shall we have to ask her, Arthur?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t come if you did,” Arthur said, “Elsie’s awfully religious, you know. One of those people who think more about their own hereafter than other people’s presents. If Elsie looked after Sam properly instead of spending all her time in church. If she spent as much time and energy on Sam as she has in saving her soul, Sam wouldn’t have—”
    â€œWouldn’t have what ?” inquired Barbara eagerly.
    â€œWouldn’t have painted the town red,” said Mr. Abbott in his “smiling voice.”
    By this time Mr. Abbott had almost decided to ask Sam down for a few days. Barbara was interested in Sam and obviously intended him to come. After all, thought Mr. Abbott, he couldn’t do much harm here (he couldn’t paint Wandlebury red) and, perhaps, if I heard Barbara’s opinion of him, it would give me some clue to the boy. I’d like Barbara’s opinion of Sam. And then he chuckled inwardly and thought, if Barbara sees through to Sam’s bones, I’ll eat my hat. The truth was that Mr. Abbott had thought it all over before, and it had been on the tip of his tongue, on several occasions, to suggest having Sam down to Sunnydene, but every time this had happened he had choked the words back, and left them unsaid. The reason for this strange behavior, this wavering, this filling and backing on the part of the usually forthright and stable Mr. Abbott was rather queer. It was the recollection of Sam at the wedding, and Barbara’s reaction to the vision—for vision he was. Mr. Abbott had thought himself rather smart—until he saw Sam—he had arrayed himself in his morning coat, with his neatly striped trousers and lavender waistcoat, and he had had his topper ironed at Blockes. They had decided to have a very quiet wedding (this was necessary in the peculiar circumstances), but Mr. Abbott had felt that it was due to Barbara to wear the proper clothes to marry her in, and the proper clothes for a wedding were those enumerated above. In addition to this Mr. Abbott was aware that he looked well in morning dress (and what man does not desire to look well at his wedding?); his broad shoulders seemed even broader beneath the well-fitting black cloth, his narrow hips seemed narrower beneath the chaste pinstripe of his trousers, the shining topper lent dignity to his pleasant, kindly face. These garments of Mr. Abbott’s were old and valued friends; they had helped him through his first luncheon party, they had given him confidence at his first board meeting, they had accompanied him to weddings galore, and, on two occasions, had aided and upheld him in the discharge of the responsible and onerous duties of best man. He had worn them at Lords, year by year when he attended the Eton and Harrow match. They had accompanied him to Ascot and had shared with him the joy of winning a good deal of money and the sorrow of losing considerably more. The morning coat and the topper (but not the other more festive accompaniments) had seen him through a good many funerals, and had helped him to conceal too much feeling—or too little.
    For five years these, almost sacred, garments had been laid away, guarded by blue paper and a superfluity of mothballs, while Mr. Abbott waged war for his country, attired—very differently, but almost as becomingly—in a khaki tunic and a Sam Browne belt; and, when he returned, bearing the sheaves of victory, he had lifted