Father of the Bride Read Online Free PDF

trying to remember where he had seen him before. “Are they starting in already?”
    “That’s it, sir. I was wondering if I could have four old-fashioneds.”
    “No martinis?” suggested Mr. Banks.
    “Oh, no indeed, sir. That’s very kind of you. Just old-fashioneds.”
    Mr. Banks filled four of his emergency glasses with ice cubes and pushed them down the pantry shelf. “Thank you, sir. That’s service,” said the young man. His place was immediately taken by a stout youth with horn-rimmed glasses.
    “Sir, four old-fashioneds and one scotch and soda.”
    “I haven’t any scotch,” said Mr. Banks. He hoped that his voice did not betray the fact that he had just hidden three bottles in the end cupboard behind Mrs. Banks’ flower vases.
    The stout young man looked nonplused. He was silent for a moment as he considered this unexpected situation from every angle.
    “I don’t know, sir. I guess bourbon and soda will do.”
    Mr. Banks, irritated by a sense of guilt, poured a highball from a bottle labeled “Whiskey—A Blend.” “Wouldn’t those people like martinis?” he asked.

The stout young man looked nonplused.

“Oh no, sir. This is plenty.”
    The doorway was now filled with young men who observed him gravely. “Sir, four old-fashioneds, no garbage in two, if you know what I mean. One on the rocks and one with a dash of sugar and no bitters.”
    “Good God,” said Mr. Banks, “do they think I’m filling out prescriptions in here?”
    A tall young man with a long neck peered around the frame of the door. “Good evening, sir,” he said cordially. “Looks as if it was going to be a nice party.”
    “I haven’t seen it,” said Mr. Banks testily. “What would you like? Half a dozen frozen daiquiris?”
    “Oh no, sir. Just a couple of martinis.”
    Mr. Banks stared at him delightedly. “You mean martinis?”
    “Yes, sir. Can I help you, sir? It’ll speed things up a bit.”
    “No thank you,” said Mr. Banks grimly. “I enjoy doing this. It’s my hobby.”
    For half an hour he sloshed around frantically, trying to keep up with the demand. Then there was a sudden lull in business. “To hell with it,” he muttered. Mopping his suit off as best he could, he took a martini and made for the living room, from which there now came a steady roar, like the beating of surf on rocks.
    He shouldered his way into the room. Except for a few absentminded smiles, no one paid the least attention to him. He found himself a bit of standing room in the corner by the bookcases. An intellectual type with black bangs and lovely eyes appeared before him.
    “You look like a nice sort of person,” she said. “Do you mind if I talk to you? I’m visiting and I don’t know anyone.”
    “Neither do I,” said Mr. Banks.
    “These things can be pretty grim rat races if you don’t know anybody,” she said sympathetically. “I like to study types, though. Don’t you?”
    “It’s a passion with me,” said Mr. Banks. “Have you located any?”
    “Oh, sure,” she said. “At a party like this it’s a cinch. Now, for instance, there are just two female types here—those who are married and the still unasked. You can spot them a mile off.”
    “How?” asked Mr. Banks.
    “Oh, it’s the way they’re enthusiastic about the news,” she said. “You see, with the married ones it’s more relief than enthusiasm. You know. Like the way you feel when somebody you’re fond of, that’s sort of backward, passes an exam.”
    “Exactly,” said Mr. Banks.
    “And those who are still among the unasked are full of beans in that fine old Playing-Fields-of-Eaton sort of way. You know. You’re a better man than I am Gunga Din and pip pip.”
    “I think you’ve got something there,” said Mr. Banks.
    At this moment they were caught in an eddy that swept the black-banged girl out of sight. Mr. Banks found himself in a group which was being addressed with gestures by the stout young man with bone glasses.
    “Oh,