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called for help. Queer things, women, mused Mr. Banks, as he moved in.
    Like an old cattleman cutting calves from the herd, he disentangled his guests one by one and propelled them through the front door with such light-handed skill that they were unaware of his treachery until they found themselves in the open air.
    The young man with the bone glasses was still working on the story about the caliph’s daughter. His audience had shrunk to his pregnant wife and Mrs. Banks, both of whom seemed to have an allergy for Oriental folklore. Placing a fatherly arm about his shoulder, Mr. Banks removed the glass from his cramped fingers.
    “Good night,” he purred. “Good night, my boy. You were both swell to come.” As the door closed after them he instinctively placed his back against it. With a sick heart he surveyed the wreckage of what had once been his home. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to announce the engagement.
    Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

   5   
    THE FAT IS IN THE FIRE
    The only step remaining to make the whole thing irretrievable was the announcement of the engagement in the papers.
    Mrs. Banks considered the wording of the notice of vital importance. Her brother, Uncle Charlie, had worked on a Chicago newspaper for several weeks when he was a boy. Since then he had been regarded as an authority on all matters concerning the press. He was now called in as a consultant.
    Uncle Charlie said it didn’t make a damn bit of difference how you wrote the notice. The Society Editor would hand your copy to the office boy, who would bitch the whole thing up anyhow.
    Mrs. Banks pooh-poohed this. She declared that, in spite of such journalistic cynicism, this notice was going to be letter-perfect. It was written, read, rewritten, reread, submitted to the Dunstan family, revised and resubmitted. There were eventually so many drafts lying around that Mr. Banks couldn’t remember which was the one that had been finally approved.
    Kay was the only person who showed no interest. As long as they spelled her name with a “K” and not with a “C” she was satisfied.
    Mr. Banks finally took what he hoped was the right draft down to the office to have Miss Bellamy make six copies.
    Miss Bellamy was more excited about the wedding than any of the principals. She had been his secretary for fifteen years, during which she had devoted so much time to his personal as well as his business affairs that she had found no opportunity to get married herself. As a compensation she had gradually assumed remote, but nonetheless complete, control of the Banks family.
    In a crisis such as this, therefore, Miss Bellamy naturally felt the weight of her responsibility. She had a real affection for Mr. Banks, but it was that of a mother for a backward son. Mrs. Banks she secretly regarded as a cultured incompetent. She had no illusions, therefore, that anything about this whole affair would be handled properly or efficiently, but she was out to do her best to pick up the pieces.
    Miss Bellamy made several editorial changes in the copy without even referring the matter to Mr. Banks. Then she typed it with unerring speed. “We must read this back,” she said. “There mustn’t be any mistakes at this point.” She read while Mr. Banks stared unseeingly at the original with fierce concentration.
    “There,” he said. “That’s one job done as it should be.” Miss Bellamy nodded understandingly. She was a great comfort to Mr. Banks. Although much too tactful to make any direct comment, she always made it quite clear to him that she knew what he was up against.
    The following morning he was out of bed before the alarm went off. The morning paper lay on the door mat. He glanced up and down the shaded length of Maple Drive. Not a soul was in sight. His neighbors slumbered, unconscious of the bombshell about to explode among them.
    Sitting on the bottom steps of the front stairs, he turned to the Society Section. There was Kay’s