Father of the Bride by Edward Streeter Page A

a card table in a far corner. They tried It on top of a chest of drawers. They hid It on a window sill behind an electric clock. No matter where they placed It, It was the first object which struck the eye when one entered the room.
    The visitors’ opening gambit was unvaried. “My dear , I never saw so many lovely presents.” Then they would walk straight to the Thing and stand before It, picking up little objects in the neighborhood and laying them down. It was only a matter of minutes before they would have their hands on It. Operating on the theory that offense is the best defense, Mrs. Banks stepped in at this moment and explained that it was all a huge practical joke. Once they knew how excruciating it was everyone laughed heartily, but there was a malicious note in their mirth that Mr. Banks did not like.
    Life was never quite the same after the arrival of Aunt Marne’s present. Gone now the simple note. Gone the spirit of guileless appreciation for a gift as such. Gone the impartial screams of pleasure as the wrappings fell away. He who deceives a trusting dog does harm. From this point on the contents of each incoming package were appraised with the cold commercialism of an Oriental bazaar.
    “What is it?”
    “Another tray.”
    Deep groan from Kay. “It’s a stinker, too.”
    “We can take it back. Where’s it from?”
    “The Tucker Gift Shop.”
    “We have almost enough junk from there, darling, to get something you really want.”
    “The trouble is there’s nothing in the Tucker Gift Shop that anybody wants.”
    Mr. Banks, the erstwhile cynic of the family, found himself cringing in the face of this cold brutality. His heart went out in sympathy to the army of bread-winners who would soon be tearing out what little hair was left over the bills from the Tucker Gift Shop.
    “That’s a nice tray,” he would remark fatuously. “What’s the matter with it? There are lots of girls would give their eyeteeth—”
    “Oh, Pops, you don’t know anything about it. Let them keep their teeth. They can have it for nothing.”
    Mr. Banks hated to see Kay get hard.
    •  •  •
    Someone had given Kay a Bride’s Book for an engagement present.
    A Bride’s Book is, to a prospective bride, what a score card is to a baseball fan. The statistics are as important as the game itself. Kay’s book was bound with white satin, already autographed with her thumb prints. It contained a quotation from Longfellow on the title page.
O fortunate, O happy day
When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth.
    Mr. Banks read this several times with interest. To him it put Longfellow in the running with the prophet Isaiah. Anybody who found a place for a new household in this cockeyed world would not only be fortunate and happy, but also shot in the pants with luck. Nevertheless, he thought it struck rather a gloomy note for a book of this kind.

It was only a matter of minutes before they would have their hands on It.

But Kay wasn’t interested in housing. Her competitive sense was aroused by the blank pages for listing each present and the name of the donor. A number was printed before each entry space, and in the back of the book were perforated sheets of corresponding gummed numbers to be pasted on the presents.
    Kay had examined these sheets immediately to be sure there were enough numbers to meet her estimates. Although her memory for figures was notoriously bad, she knew exactly how many presents each of her friends had received since Sally Gross had led off the bridal procession five years ago.
    Booboo Batchelder had held the record for the last two years at 234. Her friends had always regarded it as unfair competition inasmuch as Booboo’s father had once been a Senator. But statistics were statistics nevertheless.
    Kay made no predictions. She was an ambitious young woman, however, accustomed to setting her sights high. Her motto was “235 or bust.” She had no Senator father to fall