At any
rate, after a hard morning's work on her new book she felt that her
mind needed cooling, and found that the rush of air against her face
effected this satisfactorily. The greater the rush, the quicker the
cooling. However, as the alert inhabitants of Manhattan Island, a hardy
race trained from infancy to dodge taxicabs and ambulance wagons, had
always removed themselves from her path with their usual agility, she
had never yet had an accident.
But then she had never yet met George Pennicut. And George, pawn of
fate, was even now waiting round the corner to upset her record.
George, man of all work to Kirk Winfield, one of the youngest and least
efficient of New York's artist colony, was English. He had been in
America some little time, but not long enough to accustom his rather
unreceptive mind to the fact that, whereas in his native land vehicles
kept to the left, in the country of his adoption they kept to the
right; and it was still his bone-headed practice, when stepping off the
sidewalk, to keep a wary look-out in precisely the wrong direction.
The only problem with regard to such a man is who will get him first.
Fate had decided that it should be Lora Delane Porter.
To-day Mrs. Porter, having circled the park in rapid time, turned her
car down Central Park West. She was feeling much refreshed by the
pleasant air.
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