The Coming of Bill | Page 6

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;