"Hey!" he boomed.
Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze.
"I beg your pardon?"
"This won't do, ma'am. I've me report to make. How did this happen?"
"You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile."
"But......"
"I shall not charge him."
She turned and followed Kirk.
"But, say......" The policeman's voice was now almost plaintive.
Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman,
having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved his
feelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locust
stick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile's hooter, in
a sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. The
policeman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in the
street.
"Put him to bed," said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couch
in the studio. "You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticed
that you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grossly
out of condition, like ninety-nine per cent of men to-day."
"I'm not so young as I was, ma'am," protested George. "When I was in
the harmy I was a fine figure of a man."
"The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,"
commented Mrs. Porter. "Beer?"
A grateful smile irradiated George's face.
"Thank you, ma'am. It's very kind of you, ma'am. I don't mind if I do."
"The man appears a perfect imbecile," said Mrs. Porter, turning
abruptly to Kirk. "I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to
beer and he babbles."
"I think he thought you were offering him a drink," suggested Kirk. "As
a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn't hurt him, after the shock he
has had."
"On no account. The worst thing possible."
"This isn't your lucky day, George," said Kirk. "Well, I guess I'll
phone to the doctor."
"Quite unnecessary."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Entirely unnecessary. I have made an examination. There is practically
nothing the matter with the man. Put him to bed, and let him sponge his
knee with warm water."
"Are you a doctor, Mrs. Porter?"
"I have studied first aid."
"Well, I think, if you don't mind, I should like to have your opinion
confirmed."
This was rank mutiny. Mrs. Porter stared haughtily at Kirk. He met her
gaze with determination.
"As you please," she snapped.
"Thank you," said Kirk. "I don't want to take any risks with George. I
couldn't afford to lose him. There aren't any more like him: they've
mislaid the pattern."
He went to the telephone.
Mrs. Porter watched him narrowly. She was more than ever impressed by
the perfection of his physique. She appraised his voice as he spoke to
the doctor. It gave evidence of excellent lungs. He was a wonderfully
perfect physical specimen.
An idea concerning this young man came into her mind, startling as all
great ideas are at birth. The older it grew, the more she approved of
it. She decided to put a few questions to him. She had a habit of
questioning people, and it never occurred to her that they might resent
it. If it had occurred to her, she would have done it just the same.
She was like that.
"Mr. Winfield?"
"Yes?"
"I should like to ask you a few questions."
This woman delighted Kirk.
"Please do," he said.
Mrs. Porter scanned him closely.
"You are an extraordinarily healthy man, to all appearances. Have you
ever suffered from bad health?"
"Measles."
"Immaterial."
"Very unpleasant, though."
"Nothing else?"
"Mumps."
"Unimportant."
"Not to me. I looked like a water-melon."
"Nothing besides? No serious illnesses?"
"None."
"What is your age?"
"Twenty-five."
"Are your parents living?"
"No."
"Were they healthy?"
"Fit as fiddles."
"And your grandparents?"
"Perfect bear-cats. I remember my grandfather at the age of about a
hundred or something like that spanking me for breaking his pipe. I
thought it was a steam-hammer. He was a wonderfully muscular old
gentleman."
"Excellent."
"By the way," said Kirk casually, "my life is insured."
"Very sensible. There has been no serious illness in your family at
all, then, as far as you know?"
"I could hunt up the records, if you like; but I don't think so."
"Consumption? No? Cancer? No? As far as you are aware, nothing? Very
satisfactory."
"I'm glad you're pleased."
"Are you married?"
"Good Lord, no!"
"At your age you should be. With your magnificent physique and
remarkable record of health, it is your duty to the future of the race
to marry."
"I'm not sure I've been worrying much about the future of the race."
"No man does. It is the crying evil of the day, men's selfish
absorption in the present, their utter lack of a sense of duty with
regard to the future. Have you read my 'Dawn of Better Things'?"
"I'm afraid I read very few novels."
"It is not a novel. It is a treatise on the need for implanting a sense
of personal duty to the future of the race in the modern young man."
"It sounds a crackerjack. I must get it."
"I will send you a copy. At the same time I will send you my
'Principles of Selection' and 'What of To-morrow?' They will make you
think."
"I bet they will. Thank you very much."
"And now," said Mrs. Porter, switching the conversation to the gaping
George, "you had better put this man to bed."
George Pennicut's opinion of Mrs. Porter, to which he was destined to
adhere on closer acquaintance, may be recorded.
"A hawful woman, sir," he whispered as Kirk bore him off.
"Nonsense, George," said Kirk. "One of the most entertaining ladies I
have ever met. Already I love her like a son. But how she escaped from
Bloomingdale beats me. There's been carelessness somewhere."
The bedrooms attached to the studio opened off the gallery that ran the
length of the east wall. Looking over the edge of the gallery before
coming downstairs Kirk perceived his visitor engaged in a tour of the
studio. At that moment she was examining his masterpiece, "Ariadne in
Naxos." He had called it that because that was what it had turned into.
At the beginning he had had no definite opinion as to its identity. It
was rather a habit with his pictures to start out in a vague spirit of
adventure and receive their label on completion. He had an airy and a
dashing way in his dealings with the goddess Art.
Nevertheless, he had sufficient of the artist soul to resent the fact
that Mrs. Porter was standing a great deal too close to the masterpiece
to get its full value.
"You want to stand back a little," he suggested over the rail.
Mrs. Porter looked up.
"Oh, there you are!" she said.
"Yes, here I am," agreed Kirk affably.
"Is this yours?"
"It is."
"You painted it?"
"I did."
"It is poor. It shows a certain feeling for colour, but the drawing is
weak," said Mrs. Porter. For this wonderful woman was as competent at
art criticism as at automobile driving and first aid. "Where did you
study?"
"In Paris, if you could call it studying. I'm afraid I was not the
model pupil."
"Kindly come down. You are giving me a crick in the neck."
Kirk descended. He found Mrs. Porter still regarding the masterpiece
with an unfavourable eye.
"Yes," she said, "the drawing is decidedly weak."
"I shouldn't wonder," assented Kirk. "The dealers to whom I've tried to
sell it have not said that in so many words, but they've all begged me