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.'
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
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.
