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Updated: May 23, 2025
Moffam, I'm glad you looked in this morning. I'll do just what you want. Take me to Dan Brewster now, and let's call the thing off, and shake hands on it." "Are you mad, Lindsay?" It was Cora Bates McCall's last shot. Mr. McCall paid no attention to it. He was shaking hands with Archie. "I consider you, Mr. Moffam," he said, "the most sensible young man I have ever met!" Archie blushed modestly.
He imagined erroneously that Archie, being the son-in-law of the owner of the hotel, had a pull with that gentleman; and he resolved to proceed warily lest he jeopardise his job. "Why, Mr. Moffam!" he said, apologetically. "I didn't know it was you I was disturbing." "Always glad to have a chat," said Archie, cordially. "What seems to be the trouble?" "My snake!" cried the queen of tragedy.
But Lucille had urged him to go now and get it over, and here he was. "I think," said Mrs. McCall, icily, "that you must have mistaken your room." Archie rallied his shaken forces. "Oh, no. Rather not. Better introduce myself, what? My name's Moffam, you know. I'm old Brewster's son-in-law, and all that sort of rot, if you know what I mean." He gulped and continued.
Yet Archie Moffam, as he turned out of the sun-bathed street into the ramshackle building on the third floor of which was the studio belonging to his artist friend, James B. Wheeler, was faintly oppressed with a sort of a kind of feeling that something was wrong. He would not have gone so far as to say that he had the pip it was more a vague sense of discomfort.
The girl, you know. Her name is Spectatia Huskisson." "It can't be!" said Archie, incredulously. "Why not?" growled Bill. "Well, how could it?" said Archie, appealing to him as a reasonable man. "I mean to say! Spectatia Huskisson! I gravely doubt whether there is such a name." "What's wrong with it?" demanded the incensed Bill. "It's a darned sight better name than Archibald Moffam."
Archie Moffam, nee Lucille Brewster, was small and slender. She had a little animated face, set in a cloud of dark hair. She was so altogether perfect that Archie had frequently found himself compelled to take the marriage-certificate out of his inside pocket and study it furtively, to make himself realise that this miracle of good fortune had actually happened to him.
At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing close by, gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, as if daring it to start anything, joined in the conversation. "I am the manager," he said. His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might like Archie Moffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat.
At about the same moment that Professor Binstead was clicking his tongue in Mr. Brewster's sitting-room, Archie Moffam sat contemplating his bride in a drawing-room on the express from Miami. He was thinking that this was too good to be true. His brain had been in something of a whirl these last few days, but this was one thought that never failed to emerge clearly from the welter. Mrs.
"Besides," said Reggie, achieving a certain animation now that the tedious business interview was concluded, "going to the ball-game this afternoon might get pocket picked yes, better have it sent." "Where shall I send it, sir?" "Eh? Oh, shoot it along to Mrs. Archibald Moffam, at the Cosmopolis. Not to-day, you know. Buzz it in first thing to-morrow."
After a short and melancholy "Good morning," he turned to the task of measuring out the tobacco in silence. Archie's sympathetic nature was perturbed. "What's the matter, laddie?" he enquired. "You would seem to be feeling a bit of an onion this bright morning, what, yes, no? I can see it with the naked eye." Mr. Blake grunted sorrowfully. "I've had a knock, Mr. Moffam."
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