"
"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 glasses 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.
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