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, bowlegged, 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 absentminded 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.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Winfield will help you indoors.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She turned to Kirk.
“Now, Mr. Winfield.”
Kirk bent over the victim, gripped him, and lifted him like a baby.
“He’s got his,” observed one interested spectator.
“I should worry!” agreed another. “All broken up.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Porter severely. “The man is hardly hurt at all. Be more accurate in your remarks.”
She eyed the speaker sternly. He wilted.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled sheepishly.
The policeman, with that lionlike courage which makes the New York constabulary what it is, endeavoured to assert himself at this point.
“Hey!” he boomed.
Mrs. Porter turned her gaze upon him, her cold, steely gaze.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This won’t do, ma’am. I’ve me report to make. How did this happen?”
“You have already been informed. The man ran into my automobile.”
“But—”
“I shall not charge him.”
She turned and followed Kirk.
“But, say—” The policeman’s voice was now almost plaintive.
Mrs. Porter ignored him and disappeared into the house. The policeman, having gulped several times in a disconsolate way, relieved his feelings by dispersing the crowd with well-directed prods of his locust stick. A small boy who lingered, squeezing the automobile’s hooter, in a sort of trance he kicked. The boy vanished. The crowd melted. The policeman walked slowly toward Ninth Avenue. Peace reigned in the street.
“Put him to bed,” said Mrs. Porter, as Kirk laid his burden on a couch in the studio. “You seem exceedingly muscular, Mr. Winfield. I noticed that you carried him without an effort. He is a stout man, too. Grossly out of condition, like ninety-nine percent of men today.”
“I’m not so young as I was, ma’am,” protested George. “When I was in the harmy I was a fine figure of a man.”
“The more shame to you that you have allowed yourself to deteriorate,” commented Mrs. Porter. “Beer?”
A grateful smile irradiated George’s face.
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s very kind of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do.”
“The man appears a perfect imbecile,” said Mrs. Porter, turning abruptly to Kirk. “I ask him if he attributes his physical decay to beer and he babbles.”
“I think he thought you were offering him a drink,” suggested Kirk. “As a matter of fact, a little brandy wouldn’t hurt him, after the shock he has had.”
“On no account. The worst thing possible.”
“This isn’t your lucky day, George,” said Kirk. “Well, I guess I’ll phone to the doctor.”
“Quite unnecessary.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Entirely unnecessary. I have made an examination. There is practically nothing the matter with the man. Put him to bed, and let him sponge his knee with warm water.”
“Are you a doctor, Mrs. Porter?”
“I have studied first aid.”
“Well, I think, if you don’t mind, I should like to have your opinion confirmed.”
This was rank mutiny. Mrs. Porter stared haughtily at Kirk. He met her gaze with determination.
“As you please,” she snapped.
“Thank you,” said Kirk. “I don’t want to take any risks with George. I couldn’t afford to lose him. There aren’t any more like him: they’ve mislaid the pattern.”
He went to the telephone.
Mrs. Porter watched him narrowly. She was more than ever impressed by the perfection of his physique. She appraised his voice as he spoke to the doctor. It gave evidence of excellent lungs. He was a wonderfully perfect physical specimen.
An idea concerning this young man came into her mind, startling as all great ideas are
