The Coming of Bill. P. G. Wodehouse
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will have to wait. What did you wish to see her about?"
"That is a matter that concerns——No! I will tell you, for I believe you to be responsible for the whole affair."
"Well?"
"Last night, quite by chance, I found out that Ruth has for some time been paying visits to the studio of an artist."
Mrs. Porter nodded.
"Quite right. Mr. Kirk Winfield. She is going to marry him."
Bailey's hat fell to the floor. His stick followed. His mouth opened widely. His glasses shot from his nose and danced madly at the end of their string.
"What!"
"It will be a most suitable match in every way," said Mrs. Porter.
Bailey bounded to his feet.
"It's incredible!" he shouted. "It's ridiculous! It's abominable! It's—it's incredible!"
Mrs. Porter gazed upon his transports with about the same amount of interest which she would have bestowed upon a whirling dervish at Coney Island.
"You have not seen Mr. Winfield, I gather?"
"When I do, he will have reason to regret it. I——"
"Sit down."
Bailey sat down.
"Ruth and Mr. Winfield are both perfect types. Mr. Winfield is really a splendid specimen of a man. As to his intelligence, I say nothing. I have ceased to expect intelligence in man, and I am grateful for the smallest grain. But physically, he is magnificent. I could not wish dear Ruth a better husband."
Bailey had pulled himself together with a supreme effort and had achieved a frozen calm.
"Such a marriage is, of course, out of the question," he said.
"Why?"
"My sister cannot marry a—a nobody, an outsider——"
"Mr. Winfield is not a nobody. He is an extraordinarily healthy young man."
"Are you aware that Ruth, if she had wished, could have married a prince?"
"She told me. A little rat of a man, I understand. She had far too much sense to do any such thing. She has a conscience. She knows what she owes to the future of the——"
"Bah!" cried Bailey rudely.
"I suppose," said Mrs. Porter, "that, like most men, you care nothing for the future of the race? You are not interested in eugenics?"
Bailey quivered with fury at the word, but said nothing.
"If you have ever studied even so elementary a subject as the colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl——"
The colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl was too much for Bailey.
"I decline to discuss any such drivel," he said, rising. "I came here to see Ruth, and—"
"And here she is," said Mrs. Porter.
The door opened, and Ruth appeared. She looked, to Bailey, insufferably radiant and pleased with herself.
"Bailey!" she cried. "Whatever brings my little Bailey here, when he ought to be working like a good boy in Wall Street?"
"I will tell you," Bailey's demeanour was portentous.
"He's frowning," said Ruth. "You have been stirring his hidden depths, Aunt Lora!"
Bailey coughed.
"Ruth!"
"Bailey, don't! You don't know how terrible you look when you're roused."
"Ruth, kindly answer me one question. Aunt Lora informs me that you are going to marry this man Winfield. Is it or is it not true?"
"Of course it's true."
Bailey drew in his breath. He gazed coldly at Ruth, bowed to Mrs. Porter, and smoothed the nap of his hat.
"Very good," he said stonily. "I shall now call upon this Mr. Winfield and thrash him." With that he walked out of the room.
He directed his cab to the nearest hotel, looked up Kirk's address in the telephone-book, and ten minutes later was ringing the studio bell.
A look of relief came into George Pennicut's eyes as he opened the door. To George, nowadays, every ring at the bell meant a possible visit from Lora Delane Porter.
"Is Mr. Kirk Winfield at home?" inquired Bailey.
"Yes, sir. Who shall I say, sir?"
"Kindly tell Mr. Winfield that Mr. Bannister wishes to speak to him."
"Yes, sir. Will you step this way, sir?"
Bailey stepped that way.
While Bailey was driving to the studio in his taxicab, Kirk, in boxing trunks and a sleeveless vest, was engaged on his daily sparring exercise with Steve Dingle.
This morning Steve seemed to be amused at something. As they rested, at the conclusion of their fifth and final round, Kirk perceived that he was chuckling, and asked the reason.
"Why, say," explained Steve, "I was only thinking that it takes all kinds of ivory domes to make a nuttery. I ran across a new brand of simp this morning. Just before I came to you I'm scheduled to show up at one of these Astorbilt homes t'other side of the park. First I mix it with the old man, then son and heir blows in and I attend to him.
"Well, this morning, son acts like he's all worked up. He's one of these half-portion Willie-boys with Chippendale legs, but he throws out a line of talk that would make you wonder if it's safe to let him run around loose. Says his mind's made up; he's going to thrash a gink within an inch of his life; going to muss up his features so bad he'll have to have 'em replanted.
"'Why?' I says. 'Never you mind,' says he. 'Well, who is he?' I asks. What do you think happens then? He thinks hard for a spell, rolls his eyes, and says: 'Search me. I've forgotten.' 'Know where he lives?' I asks him. 'Nope,' he says.
"Can you beat it! Seems to me if I had a kink in my coco that big I'd phone to an alienist and have myself measured for a strait-jacket. Gee! You meet all kinds, going around the way I do."
Kirk laughed and lit a cigarette.
"If you want to use the shower, Steve," he said, "you'd better get up there now. I shan't be ready yet awhile. Then, if this is one of your energetic mornings and you would care to give me a rub-down——"
"Sure," said Steve obligingly. He picked up his clothes and went upstairs to the bathroom, which, like the bedrooms, opened on to the gallery. Kirk threw himself on the couch, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and began to think of Ruth.
"Mr. Bannister," announced George Pennicut at the door.
Kirk was on his feet in one bound. The difference, to a man whose mind is far away, between "Mr. Bannister" and "Miss Bannister" is not great, and his first impression was that it was Ruth who had arrived.
He was acutely conscious of his costume, and was quite relieved when he saw, not Ruth, but a severe-looking young man, who advanced upon him in a tight-lipped, pop-eyed manner that suggested dislike and hostility. The visitor was a complete stranger to him, but, his wandering wits returning to their duties, he deduced that this must be one of Ruth's relatives.
It is a curious fact that the possibility of Ruth having other relatives than Mrs. Porter had not occurred to him till now. She herself filled his mind to such an extent that he had never speculated on any possible family that might be attached to her. To him Ruth was Ruth. He accepted the fact that she was Mrs. Porter's niece. That she might also be somebody's daughter or sister had not struck him. The look on Bailey's face somehow brought it home to him that the world was about to step in and complicate the idyllic simplicity of his wooing.
Bailey, meanwhile, as Kirk's