I Spy | Page 8

go to my room and wait for me." As she spoke Mrs.
Whitney crossed the broad hall and, passing the Colonial staircase,
entered the elevator. The automatic car carried her to the first bedroom
floor but, changing her mind, she did not open the door; instead she
pressed the electric button marked "Attic." Her slight feeling of
irritation aroused by not being met downstairs by any member of her
family was increased by stepping from the elevator into a dark hall.
"Winslow!" she called. Meeting with no response she walked over to
the opposite wall and by the aid of the light in the elevator found the
electric switch and turned it on. Not pausing to look about her, she
went to the back of the large high-roofed attic and tried the handle of a
closed door. Finding that it would not open to her touch, she rapped
sharply on the panel. She waited several seconds before she heard a
chair pushed back and the sound of advancing footsteps. The inside
bolt was shot back with distinct force.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Whitney, jerking open 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