Each day for 14 complete hours that hansom Scottish home stood full of
dressmakers, vacuum cleaners, dentists, milliners, reporters and other
necessities of life. Hon. Samule Scott walk around looking tense like a
financial crisis. Mrs. Scott were always busy. When not engaged in any
other housekeeping she set down and wept some tears.
“Why you wept, Hon. Lady?” I ask to know.
“I am preparing for the wedding,” she say back. “No wedding can look
fashionable without a few weeps.”
Each morning Hon. Gladys Scott stand up with dressmaker and report with
angry rage of girlish soprano, “You make me so nervus that screaming
would seem pleasant!” Yet a few moments later she meet Hon. Chas
Sweetberry in parlour & report with kitten words, “O Chas, I am so
happy!”
My brain feel cross-eyed to hear this duplex conversation.
Friday night Hon. Tortoni, Italian caterman, back-up horse to front
lawn and dump forth sifficient camp-chairs to furnish 1 complete
picnic. Hon. Chas Sweetberry & 1 clergy man come later. They meet that
Scott family, including Hon. Gladys, in parlour where they lock door
and say a long ceremony, walking around & giving away several times.
When Hon. Sweetberry come outside to smoke cigaret, I say to him with
banzai in my voice,
“Congratulations, Mr Sir!”
“For what?” he dib.
“For your marriage which just took place,” I encroach.
“That wasn’t marriage,” he snork. “We was just practising.”