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lifetime. He listened with grave attention and nodded understandingly from time to time. Mr. Banks’ feeling that he was consulting his doctor became stronger as he went on. When he had finished if Buckley had pulled a stethoscope out of his briefcase and asked him to strip to the waist he would have complied without question. Instead Buckley removed a large sheaf of papers from the briefcase.
    “I’ve brought some papers,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily.
    “Soup’s on,” cried Mrs. Banks from the livingroom door, in her gayest company manner. “My, you two look solemn. Come now or it will get cold.”
    “That’s all right, my boy. We’ll do your side later.”
    •  •  •
    Kay jumped up from the table before they had finished dessert. “Come on, Buckley, we’re late. Sorry, Mom, we promised to meet the Bakers and go to the movies. Pops kept Buckley talking too long. You don’t mind if we skip the dishes do you?”
    “Of course not, dear. Run along.”
    •  •  •
    “Did you have a good talk with Buckley?” she asked as they cleared the dining-room table.
    “Very satisfactory,” said Mr. Banks moodily.

   4   
    THE NEWS IS BROKEN
    It had been agreed that only a few intimate friends and members of the family were to be told before the engagement was formally announced in the papers. Kay said this involved a cocktail party for everyone but the relatives. She would write them when she had a chance.
    The news was too big, however. It was more than she could cope with. She told everyone she met—in absolute confidence, of course—with the result that in twenty-four hours the only ones who did not know were those who would be mortally hurt if not told first.
    Mr. Banks said that, under the circumstances, the cocktail party was about as necessary as a G. I.’s pajamas. Kay said that was ridiculous . She had only told a few people and they had promised to say nothing about it and everybody announced their engagement to their close friends at a cocktail party whether they knew about it already or not.
    And so it was that, a few days later, Mr. Banks came out from town on the three-fifty-seven, composing an informal and, he hoped, dryly humorous little speech. It was to be about Kay as a little girl, Kay growing up and finally, in a big surprise climax, Kay announcing her engagement.

    . . . Composing an informal and, he hoped, dryly humorous little speech.
    She had estimated that there would be between twenty-five and thirty people at the party. Experience had taught him that on this basis he could expect between thirty-five and fifty. In the pantry he stared with a sinking heart at the neatly arranged phalanxes of glasses that Mrs. Banks had borrowed during the day from unwilling friends. Clearly he hadn’t thought this thing through. How was any one man to make drinks for a crowd like that? It would take a trained octopus.
    However, this was no time for panic. Decisive action was called for. Martinis for everybody. That would be simplest. With perhaps just a few old-fashioneds ready for those allergic to gin. He pulled two large pitchers from a cupboard and went to work.
    Mr. Banks was a hospitable man and in many ways a generous one. There were limits, however. He groaned with pain as he listened to one bottle after another of his best gurgle its lifeblood into the pitchers. But when it was all done and he stood back to inspect the result, he realized that it had been a labor of love. He cherished a special fondness for these kids who had been running through his house for twenty years and whose names he could no longer remember now that they had suddenly grown up.
    The early ones were arriving. He could hear the high-pitched entrance screams of the females. He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and was about to go out and greet them when the pantry door was blocked by a rosy-cheeked young man with a disarming smile.
    “How are you, sir?”
    “I’m fine, how are you?” said Mr. Banks,