Providence, told a friend as he ran that only two minutes before he had
almost robbed himself of this spectacle by going into a moving-picture
palace.
Mrs. Porter was annoyed. She had never run over anything before except
a few chickens, and she regarded the incident as a blot on her
escutcheon. She was incensed with this idiot who had flung himself
before her car, not reflecting in her heat that he probably had a
pre-natal tendency to this sort of thing inherited from some ancestor
who had played 'last across' in front of hansom cabs in the streets of
London.
She bent over George and passed experienced hands over his portly form.
For this remarkable woman was as competent at first aid as at anything
else. The citizens gathered silently round in a circle.
'It was your fault,' she said to her victim severely. 'I accept no
liability whatever. I did not run into you. You ran into me. I have a
jolly good mind to have you arrested for attempted suicide.'
This aspect of the affair had not struck Mr. Pennicut. Presented to him
in these simple words, it checked the recriminatory speech which, his
mind having recovered to some extent from the first shock of the
meeting, he had intended to deliver. He swallowed his words, awed. He
felt dazed and helpless. Mrs. Porter had that effect upon men.
Some more citizens arrived.
'No bones broken,' reported Mrs. Porter, concluding her examination.
'You are exceedingly fortunate. You have a few bruises, and one knee is
slightly wrenched. Nothing to signify. More frightened than hurt. Where
do you live?'
'There,' said George meekly.
'Where?'
'Them studios.'
'No. 90?'
'Yes, ma'am.' George's voice was that of a crushed worm.
'Are you an artist?'
'No, ma'am. I'm Mr. Winfield's man.'
'Whose?'
'Mr. Winfield's, ma'am.'
'Is he in?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'I'll fetch him. And if the policeman comes along and wants to know why
you're lying there, mind you tell him the truth, that you ran into me.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Very well. Don't forget.'
'No, ma'am.'
She crossed the street and rang the bell over which was a card hearing
the name of 'Kirk Winfield'. Mr. Pennicut watched her in silence.
Mrs. Porter pressed the button a second time. Somebody came at a
leisurely pace down the passage, whistling cheerfully. The door opened.
It did not often happen to Lora Delane Porter to feel insignificant,
least of all in the presence of the opposite sex. She had well-defined
views upon man. Yet, in the interval which elapsed between the opening
of the door and her first words, a certain sensation of smallness
