"I have called this morning----"

The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her left shoulder.

"Aunt Lora," spoke Bailey sternly.

"Shish!" said the auth.o.r.ess. Only that and nothing more. Bailey, outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.

After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair, tilted it back, and faced him.

"Well, Bailey?" she said.

She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say.

"Well?" she said again.

He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared in the cab.

"Good gracious, Bailey!" cried Mrs. Porter, "you have not come here and ruined my morning's work for the pleasure of looking at me surely? Say something."

Bailey found his voice.

"I have called to see Ruth, who, I am informed, is with you."

"She is in her room. I made her breakfast in bed. Is there any message I can give her?"

Bailey suddenly remembered the speech he had framed in the cab.

"Aunt Lora," he said, "I am sorry to have to intrude upon you at so early an hour, but it is imperative that I see Ruth and ask her to explain the meaning of a most disturbing piece of news that has come to my ears."

Mrs. Porter did not appear to have heard him.

"A man of your height should weigh more," she said. "What is your weight?"

"My weight; beside the point----"

"Your weight is under a hundred and forty pounds, and it ought to be over a hundred and sixty. Eat more. Avoid alcohol. Keep regular hours."

"Aunt Lora!"

"Well?"

"I wish to see my sister."

"You will have to wait. What did you wish to see her about?"

"That is a matter that concerns----No! I will tell you, for I believe you to be responsible for the whole affair."

"Well?"

"Last night, quite by chance, I found out that Ruth has for some time been paying visits to the studio of an artist."

Mrs. Porter nodded.

"Quite right. Mr. Kirk Winfield. She is going to marry him."

Bailey's hat fell to the floor. His stick followed. His mouth opened widely. His gla.s.ses shot from his nose and danced madly at the end of their string.

"What!"

"It will be a most suitable match in every way," said Mrs. Porter.

Bailey bounded to his feet.

"It's incredible!" he shouted. "It's ridiculous! It's abominable!

It's--it's incredible!"

Mrs. Porter gazed upon his transports with about the same amount of interest which she would have bestowed upon a whirling dervish at Coney Island.

"You have not seen Mr. Winfield, I gather?"

"When I do, he will have reason to regret it. I----"

"Sit down."

Bailey sat down.

"Ruth and Mr. Winfield are both perfect types. Mr. Winfield is really a splendid specimen of a man. As to his intelligence, I say nothing. I have ceased to expect intelligence in man, and I am grateful for the smallest grain. But physically, he is magnificent. I could not wish dear Ruth a better husband."

Bailey had pulled himself together with a supreme effort and had achieved a frozen calm.

"Such a marriage is, of course, out of the question," he said.

"Why?"

"My sister cannot marry a--a n.o.body, an outsider----"

"Mr. Winfield is not a n.o.body. He is an extraordinarily healthy young man."

"Are you aware that Ruth, if she had wished, could have married a prince?"

"She told me. A little rat of a man, I understand. She had far too much sense to do any such thing. She has a conscience. She knows what she owes to the future of the----"

"Bah!" cried Bailey rudely.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Porter, "that, like most men, you care nothing for the future of the race? You are not interested in eugenics?"

Bailey quivered with fury at the word, but said nothing.

"If you have ever studied even so elementary a subject as the colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl----"