Part 17 (1/2)
”What do you know?”
”What Ruth has told me. That he is a loafer who pretends to be an artist.”
”He is a poor artist. I grant you that. His drawing is weak. But are you aware that he is forty-three inches round the chest, six feet tall, and in perfect physical condition?”
”What has that got to do with it?”
”Everything. You have not read my 'Principles of Selection'?”
”I have not.”
”I will send you a copy to-morrow.”
”I will burn it directly it arrives.”
”Then you will miss a great deal of valuable information,” said Mrs.
Porter tranquilly.
There was a pause. John Bannister glared furiously at Mrs. Porter, but her gaze was moving easily about the room, taking in each picture in turn in a leisurely inspection.
An exclamation from Ruth broke the silence, a sharp cry like that of an animal in pain. She sprang up, her face working, her eyes filled with tears.
”I can't stand it!” she cried. ”I can't stand it any longer! Father, Kirk and I were married this afternoon.”
Mrs. Porter went quickly to her and put her arm round her. Ruth was sobbing helplessly. The strain had broken her. John Bannister's face was leaden. The veins stood out on his forehead. His mouth twisted dumbly.
Mrs. Porter led Ruth gently to the door and pushed her out. Then she closed it and turned to him.
”So now you know, John,” she said. ”Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Self-control was second nature with John Bannister. For years he had cultivated it as a commercial a.s.set. Often a fortune had depended on his mastery of his emotions. Now, in an instant, he had himself under control once more. His face resumed its normal expression of cold impa.s.siveness. Only his mouth twitched a little.
”Well?” asked Mrs. Porter.
”Take her away,” he said quietly. ”Take her out of here. Let her go to him. I have done with her.”
”I suppose so,” said Mrs. Porter, and left the room.
Chapter VII
Sufficient Unto Themselves
Some months after John Bannister had spoken his ultimatum in the library two drought-stricken men met on the Rialto. It was a close June evening, full of thirst.
”I could do with a drink,” said the first man. ”Several.”
”My tongue is black clear down to the roots,” said the second.
”Let's go up to Kirk Winfield's,” proposed the first man, inspired.