with tears in their eyes to take the darned thing away, so I guess
you're right."
"Do you depend for a living on the sale of your pictures?"
"Thank Heaven, no. I'm the only artist in captivity with a private
income."
"A large income?"
"'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis
enough, 'twill serve. All told, about five thousand iron men per
annum."
"Iron men?"
"Bones."
"Bones?"
"I should have said dollars."
"You should. I detest slang."
"Sorry," said Kirk.
Mrs. Porter resumed her tour of the studio. She was interrupted by the
arrival of the doctor, a cheerful little old man with the bearing of
one sure of his welcome. He was an old friend of Kirk's.
"Well, what's the trouble? I couldn't come sooner. I was visiting a
case. I work."
"There is no trouble," said Mrs. Porter. The doctor spun round,
startled. In the dimness of the studio he had not perceived her. "Mr.
Winfield's servant has injured his knee very superficially. There is
practically nothing wrong with him. I have made a thorough
examination."
The doctor looked from one to the other.
"Is the case in other hands?" he asked.
"You bet it isn't," said Kirk. "Mrs. Porter just looked in for a family
chat and a glimpse of my pictures. You'll find George in bed, first
floor on the left upstairs, and a very remarkable sight he is. He is
wearing red hair with purple pyjamas. Why go abroad when you have not
yet seen the wonders of your native land?"
* * * * *
That night Lora Delane Porter wrote in the diary which, with that
magnificent freedom from human weakness that marked every aspect of her
life, she kept all the year round instead of only during the first week
in January.
This is what she wrote:
"Worked steadily on my book. It progresses. In the afternoon an
annoying occurrence. An imbecile with red hair placed himself in
front of my automobile, fortunately without serious injury to the
machine, though the sudden application of the brake cannot be good
for the tyres. Out of evil, however, came good, for I have made the
acquaintance of his employer, a Mr. Winfield, an artist. Mr. Winfield
is a man of remarkable physique. I questioned him narrowly, and he
appears thoroughly sound. As to his mental attainments, I cannot speak
so highly; but all men are fools, and Mr. Winfield is not more so than
most. I have decided that he shall marry my dear Ruth. They will make
a magnificent pair."
Chapter II Ruth States Her Intentions
At about the time when Lora Delane Porter was cross-examining Kirk
Winfield, Bailey Bannister left his club hurriedly.
Inside the club a sad, rabbit-faced young gentleman, who had been
unburdening his soul to Bailey, was seeking further consolation in an
amber drink with a cherry at the bottom of it. For this young man was
one of nature's cherry-chasers. It was the only thing he did really
well. His name was Grayling, his height five feet three, his socks
pink, and his income enormous.
So much for Grayling. He is of absolutely no importance, either to the
world or to this narrative, except in so far that the painful story he
has been unfolding to Bailey Bannister has so wrought upon that
exquisite as to send him galloping up Fifth Avenue at five miles an
hour in search of his sister Ruth.
Let us now examine Bailey. He is a faultlessly dressed young man of
about twenty-seven, who takes it as a compliment when people think
him older. His mouth, at present gaping with agitation and the
unwonted exercise, is, as a rule, primly closed. His eyes, peering
through gold-rimmed glasses, protrude slightly, giving him something
of the dumb pathos of a codfish.
His hair is pale and scanty, his nose sharp and narrow. He is a junior
partner in the firm of Bannister & Son, and it is his unalterable
conviction that, if his father would only give him a chance, he could
show Wall Street some high finance that would astonish it.
The afternoon was warm. The sun beat down on the avenue. Bailey had not
gone two blocks before it occurred to him that swifter and more
comfortable progress could be made in a taxicab than on his admirably
trousered legs. No more significant proof of the magnitude of his
agitation could be brought forward than the fact that he had so far
forgotten himself as to walk at all. He hailed a cab and gave the
address of a house on the upper avenue.
He leaned back against the cushions, trying to achieve a coolness of
mind and body. But the heat of the day kept him unpleasantly soluble,
and dismay, that perspiration of the soul, refused to be absorbed by
the pocket-handkerchief of philosophy.
Bailey Bannister was a young man who considered the minding of other
people's business a duty not to be shirked. Life is a rocky road for
such. His motto was "Let me do it!" He fussed about the affairs
of Bannister & Son; he fussed about the welfare of his friends at the
club; especially, he fussed about his only sister Ruth.
He looked on himself as a sort of guardian to Ruth. Their mother had
died when they were children, and old Mr. Bannister was indifferently
equipped with the paternal instinct. He was absorbed, body and soul, in
the business of the firm. He lived practically a hermit life in the
great house on Fifth Avenue; and, if it had not been for Bailey, so
Bailey considered, Ruth would have been allowed to do just whatever she
pleased. There were those who said that this was precisely what she
did, despite Brother Bailey.
It is a hard world for a conscientious young man of twenty-seven.
Bailey paid the cab and went into the house. It was deliciously cool in
the hall, and for a moment peace descended on him. But the distant
sound of a piano in the upper regions ejected it again by reminding him
of his mission. He bounded up the stairs and knocked at the door of his
sister's private den.
The piano stopped as he entered, and the girl on the music-stool
glanced over her shoulder.
"Well, Bailey," she said, "you look warm."
"I am warm," said Bailey in an aggrieved tone. He sat down
solemnly.
"I want to speak to you, Ruth."
Ruth shut the piano and caused the music-stool to revolve till she
faced him.
"Well?" she said.
Ruth Bannister was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, "a daughter of
the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair." From her mother she
had inherited the dark eyes and ivory complexion which went so well
with her mass of dark hair; from her father a chin of peculiar
determination and perfect teeth. Her body was strong and supple. She
radiated health.
To her friends Ruth was a source of perplexity. It was difficult to
understand her. In the set in which she moved girls married young; yet
season followed season, and Ruth remained single, and this so obviously
of her own free will that the usual explanation of such a state of
things broke down as soon as it was tested.
In shoals during her first two seasons, and lately with less unanimity,
men of every condition, from a prince, somewhat battered, but still a
prince, to the Bannisters' English butler, a good man, but at the
moment under the influence of tawny port, had laid their hearts at her
feet. One and all, they had been compelled to pick them up and take
them elsewhere. She was generally kind on these occasions, but always