A few minutes later, when
Mrs. Porter had really got to work upon him, he would not have
recognized that tepid emotion as vexation at all.
Mrs. Porter wasted no time. She perforated Mr. Penway's spine with her
eyes, reduced it to the consistency of summer squash, and drove him
before her into the studio, where she took a seat and motioned him to
do the same. For a moment she sat looking at him, by way of completing
the work of subjection, while Mr. Penway writhed uneasily on his chair
and thought of past sins.
"My name is Mrs. Porter," she began abruptly.
"Mine's Penway," said the miserable being before her. It struck him as
the only thing to say.
"I have come to inquire about Mr. Winfield."
As she paused Mr. Penway felt it incumbent upon him to speak again.
"Dear old Kirk," he mumbled.
"Nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Porter sharply. "Mr. Winfield is a
scoundrel of the worst type, and if you are as intimate a friend of his
as your words imply, it does not argue well for your respectability."
Mr. Penway opened his mouth feebly and closed it again. Having closed
it, he reopened it and allowed it to remain ajar, as it were. It was
his idea of being conciliatory.
"Tell me." Mr. Penway started violently. "Tell me, when did you last
see Mr. Winfield?"
"We went to Long Beach together this afternoon.
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