“You can't get away from the fact,” he said, “that you will be my nephew, whether you like it or not. So, be kind to an old man and let him give the bride away and let her be married from Harbor Castle.”
In her white and green High Flier car and all of her diamonds, Mrs. Farrell called on Polly and begged the same boon. We were too happy to see any one else dissatisfied; so though we had planned the quietest of weddings, we gave consent. Somehow we survived it. But now we recall it only as that terrible time when we were never alone. For once in the hands of our rich relations the quiet wedding we had arranged became a royal alliance, a Field of the Cloth of Gold, the chief point of attack for the moving-picture men.
The youths who came from New York to act as my ushers informed me that the Ushers' Dinner at Harbor Castle-from which, after the fish course, I had fled—was considered by them the most successful ushers' dinner in their career of crime. My uncle-in-Law also testifies to this. He ought to know. At four in the morning he was assisting the ushers in throwing the best man and the butler into the swimming-pool.
For our honeymoon he loaned us the yacht. “Take her as far as you like,” he said. “After this she belongs to you and Polly. And find a better name for her than Harbor Lights. It sounds too much like a stay-at-home. And I want you two to see the world.” I thanked him, and suggested he might rechristen her the JOLLY POLLY.
“That was the name,” I pointed out, “of the famous whaler owned by Captain Briggs, your wife's father, and it would be a compliment to Polly, too.”
My uncle-in-law-elect agreed heartily; but made one condition:
“I'll christen her that,” he said, “if you will promise to write a new Log of the JOLLY POLLY.” I promised. This is it.