“Mr. Winfield?”
“Yes?”
“I should like to ask you a few questions.”
This woman delighted Kirk.
“Please do,” he said.
Mrs. Porter scanned him closely.
“You are an extraordinarily healthy man, to all appearances. Have you ever suffered from bad health?”
“Measles.”
“Immaterial.”
“Very unpleasant, though.”
“Nothing else?”
“Mumps.”
“Unimportant.”
“Not to me. I looked like a watermelon.”
“Nothing besides? No serious illnesses?”
“None.”
“What is your age?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Are your parents living?”
“No.”
“Were they healthy?”
“Fit as fiddles.”
“And your grandparents?”
“Perfect bearcats. I remember my grandfather at the age of about a hundred or something like that spanking me for breaking his pipe. I thought it was a steam-hammer. He was a wonderfully muscular old gentleman.”
“Excellent.”
“By the way,” said Kirk casually, “my life is insured.”
“Very sensible. There has been no serious illness in your family at all, then, as far as you know?”
“I could hunt up the records, if you like; but I don’t think so.”
“Consumption? No? Cancer? No? As far as you are aware, nothing? Very satisfactory.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased.”
“Are you married?”
“Good Lord, no!”
“At your age you should be. With your magnificent physique and remarkable record of health, it is your duty to the future of the race to marry.”
“I’m not sure I’ve been worrying much about the future of the race.”
“No man does. It is the crying evil of the day, men’s selfish absorption in the present, their utter lack of a sense of duty with regard to the future. Have you read my Dawn of Better Things?”
“I’m afraid I read very few novels.”
“It is not a novel. It is a treatise on the need for implanting a sense of personal duty to the future of the race in the modern young man.”
“It sounds a crackerjack. I must get it.”
“I will send you a copy. At the same time I will send you my Principles of Selection and What of Tomorrow? They will make you think.”
“I bet they will. Thank you very much.”
“And now,” said Mrs. Porter, switching the conversation to the gaping George, “you had better put this man to bed.”
George Pennicut’s opinion of Mrs. Porter, to which he was destined to adhere on closer acquaintance, may be recorded.
“A hawful woman, sir,” he whispered as Kirk bore him off.
“Nonsense, George,” said Kirk. “One of the most entertaining ladies I have ever met. Already I love her like a son. But how she escaped from Bloomingdale beats me. There’s been carelessness somewhere.”
The bedrooms attached to the studio opened off the gallery that ran the length of the east wall. Looking over the edge of the gallery before coming downstairs Kirk perceived his visitor engaged in a tour of the studio. At that moment she was examining his masterpiece, Ariadne in Naxos. He had called it that because that was what it had turned into.
At the beginning he had had no definite opinion as to its identity. It was rather a habit with his pictures to start out in a vague spirit of adventure and receive their label on completion. He had an airy and a dashing way in his dealings with the goddess Art.
Nevertheless, he had sufficient of the artist soul to resent the fact that Mrs. Porter was standing a great deal too close to the masterpiece to get its full value.
“You want to stand back a little,” he suggested over the rail.
Mrs. Porter looked up.
“Oh, there you are!” she said.
“Yes, here I am,” agreed Kirk affably.
“Is this yours?”
“It is.”
“You painted it?”
“I did.”
“It is poor. It shows a certain feeling for colour, but the drawing is weak,” said Mrs. Porter. For this wonderful woman was as competent at art criticism as at automobile driving and first aid. “Where did you study?”
“In Paris, if you could call it studying. I’m afraid I was not the model pupil.”
“Kindly come down. You are giving me a crick in the neck.”
Kirk descended. He found Mrs. Porter still regarding the masterpiece with an unfavourable eye.
“Yes,” she said, “the drawing is decidedly weak.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” assented Kirk. “The dealers to whom I’ve tried to sell it have not said that in so many words, but they’ve all begged me with tears in their eyes to take the darned thing away, so I guess you’re right.”
“Do you depend for a living on the sale of your pictures?”
“Thank Heaven, no. I’m the only artist in captivity with a private income.”
“A large income?”
“ ’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. All told, about five thousand iron men per annum.”
“Iron men?”
“Bones.”
“Bones?”
“I should have said dollars.”
“You should. I detest slang.”
“Sorry,” said Kirk.
Mrs. Porter resumed her tour of the studio. She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, a cheerful little old man with the bearing of one sure of his welcome. He was an old friend of Kirk’s.
“Well, what’s the trouble? I couldn’t come sooner. I was visiting a case. I work.”
“There is no trouble,” said Mrs. Porter. The doctor spun round, startled. In the dimness of the studio he had not perceived her. “Mr. Winfield’s servant has injured his knee very superficially. There is practically nothing wrong with him. I have made a thorough examination.”
The doctor looked from one to the other.
“Is the case in other hands?” he asked.
“You bet it isn’t,” said Kirk. “Mrs. Porter just looked in for a family chat and a glimpse of my pictures. You’ll find George in bed, first floor on the left upstairs, and a very remarkable sight he is. He is 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
