For
all practical purposes, it was a safe and sane Fourth provided out of a
blue sky by the god of chance.
It was about five o'clock when Mamie, having, at a modest estimate,
seen five hundred persecuted heroes, a thousand ill-used heroines,
several regiments of cowboys, and perhaps two thousand comic men
pursued by angry mobs, returned from her usual visit to the studio.
This time there were signs of hope in the shape of a large automobile
opposite the door. She rang the bell, and there came from within the
welcome sound of footsteps. An elderly man of a somewhat dissipated
countenance opened the door.
"I want to see Mr. Winfield," said Mamie.
Mr. Penway, for it was he, gave her the approving glance which your man
of taste and discrimination does not fail to bestow upon youth and
beauty and bawled over his shoulder--
"Kirk!"
Kirk came down the passage. He was looking brown and healthy. He was in
his shirt-sleeves.
"Oh, Mr. Winfield. I'm in such trouble."
"Why, Mamie! What's the matter? Come in."
Mamie followed him into the studio, eluding Mr. Penway, whose arm was
hovering in the neighbourhood of her waist.
"Sit down," said Kirk. "What's the trouble? Have you been trying to get
at me before? We've been down to Long Beach."
"A delightful spot," observed Mr. Penway, who had followed.
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