I Spy | Page 8

the door. "Oh, my dear," his tone changing at sight of his wife, "I had no idea you were returning so soon."
"Do you call half-past six o'clock soon?" asked Mrs. Whitney following him into the room. "Winslow, Winslow, I warn you not to become too absorbed in your work."
Whitney laughed somewhat ruefully. "Does the kettle call the pot black? What do you do but give up your time to the Sisters in Unity? I'm a secondary consideration. There, there," noting his wife's expression. "Don't let us dispute over trifles. I'm making headway, Minna--headway."
"I congratulate you, dear." Mrs. Whitney laid a caressing hand on his touseled gray hair. "I never doubted that you would. But, Winslow, such complete absorption in your work is not healthy. The doctor has warned you not to shut yourself up in this room for hours, and particularly that you are not to lock your door on the inside. Remember your recent attacks of vertigo."
"McLane's an ass. The vertigo sprang from indigestion; hereafter, I'll be more careful what I eat," he protested. "There's nothing the matter with this room; it's well ventilated and heated. And I will lock my door--I won't be interrupted by any jackass servant wanting to feed me pap"--pointing scornfully toward the hall where a tray laden with a teapot and tempting dishes stood on a table near the door. "Do you not yet realize, Minna, that this is my life work?" With a sweeping gesture he indicated the models, brass, wood, and wax, which filled every cranny of the sparsely furnished room.
Mrs. Whitney sighed. The room was her bugbear. She had dignified it with the name of "studio," but it looked what it was--a workshop. Winslow Whitney, considered in clubdom as a dilettante and known to scientists as an inventor of ability, frowned impatiently as he observed his wife's air of disapprobation.
"My dear, we must agree to disagree," he said, lowering his voice. "My brain is carrying too much just now; I cannot be confused by side issues. Everything must wait until my invention is completed."
"Is your daughter's welfare of secondary importance?"
"What?" Whitney surveyed his wife in startled surprise, and her handsome face flushed under his scrutiny. "What is the matter with Kathleen's welfare? Do I illtreat her? Is she refused money? Do I make her spend hours here helping me in this"--sarcastically--"sweatshop? Four years ago she took up this fad of painting; you encouraged her at it--you know you did," shaking an accusing finger at his wife. "You persuaded me to let her study in Germany, and she hasn't been worth a button since--as far as home comfort goes."
"Winslow!"
"It's true," doggedly. "Formerly she was willing and glad to help me with my modeling, help me in making calculations, tracings--now she spends her time philandering."
"All young girls flirt, Winslow."
"But Kathleen was always so shy," Whitney shook his head. "Now I'm asked at the club if she isn't engaged to this man and that."
"Will you never realize that Kathleen is exceptionally pretty, with the gift of fascination?"
"A dangerous power," said Whitney gravely. "I do not entirely approve of the men whose attentions Kathleen encourages."
"As for instance...."
"Young Potter, and this Baron Frederic von Fincke--you know, Minna, I do not approve of international marriages, and I am very glad that Kathleen refused that Englishman, John Hargraves, whom she met in Germany...."
"I sometimes wonder if she regrets," said Mrs. Whitney musingly. "Kathleen hears from him occasionally--and at times she is so very odd in her manner."
"Humph! I hope not. I don't want her to be a war bride," retorted Whitney. "And all Englishmen of family are at the front these days. You don't think, Minna," with quickly suppressed nervousness, "that Kathleen can be fond of Sinclair Spencer."
"Sinclair Spencer?" echoed Mrs. Whitney. "Why he is double her age, and besides, Winslow, his habits are not...."
"I know," gloomily, as his wife paused. "I would certainly never give my consent to such a marriage. But, Minna, he is forever hanging around Kathleen and haunts this house."
"So much so that Kathleen is heartily sick of him," said Mrs. Whitney comfortingly. "She is not the girl to really care for a man of his caliber. After all, Winslow," unable to restrain the dig, "you are responsible for Sinclair Spencer's intimate footing in this house...."
"Intimate footing? Nothing of the sort. Just because I employed him as my patent attorney, you and Kathleen did not have to throw yourselves at his head and have him sitting in your pockets."
Mrs. Whitney laughed outright. "My dear Winslow, neither Kathleen nor I encouraged him to come here. If you are afraid," her eyes twinkling, "that Kathleen considers his attentions seriously, I will sound her on the subject. And this brings me back to what I was going to say originally; you must inquire about the men Kathleen