overcame her.
The man who had opened the door was not, judged by any standard of
regularity of features, handsome. He had a rather boyish face, pleasant
eyes set wide apart, and a friendly mouth. He was rather an outsize in
young men, and as he stood there he seemed to fill the doorway.
It was this sense of bigness that he conveyed, his cleanness, his
magnificent fitness, that for the moment overcame Mrs. Porter. Physical
fitness was her gospel. She stared at him in silent appreciation.
To the young man, however, her forceful gaze did not convey this
quality. She seemed to him to be looking as if she had caught him in
the act of endeavouring to snatch her purse. He had been thrown a
little off his balance by the encounter.
Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, and
a man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing a
ginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by a
masterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not guessing
that her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and respect.
Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly to
the matter in hand.
'Mr. Kirk Winfield?'
'Yes.'
'Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who ambles
about New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a desert
island? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman, clean-shaven,
dressed in black.'
'That sounds like George Pennicut.'
'I have no doubt that that is his name. I did not inquire. It did not
interest me. My name is Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. This man of yours has
just run into my automobile.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I cannot put it more lucidly. I was driving along the street when this
weak-minded person flung himself in front of my car. He is out there
now. Kindly come and help him in.'
'Is he hurt?'
'More frightened than hurt. I have examined him. His left knee appears
to be slightly wrenched.'
Kirk Winfield passed a hand over his left forehead and followed her.
Like George, he found Mrs. Porter a trifle overwhelming.
Out in the street George Pennicut, now the centre of quite a
substantial section of the Four Million, was causing a granite-faced
policeman to think that the age of miracles had returned by informing
him that the accident had been his fault and no other's. He greeted the
relief-party with a wan grin.
'Just broke my leg, sir,' he announced to Kirk.
'You have done nothing of the sort,' said Mrs. Porter. 'You have
wrenched your knee very slightly. Have you explained to the policeman
that it was entirely your fault?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'That's right. Always speak the truth.'
