"Perhaps you don't know it," he said, "but you're getting yourself
talked about. You go about saying perfectly impossible things to
people. You won't marry. You have refused nearly every friend I have."
Ruth shuddered.
"Your friends are awful, Bailey. They are all turned out on a pattern,
like a flock of sheep. They bleat. They have all got little, narrow
faces without chins or big, fat faces without foreheads. Ugh!"
"None of them good enough for you, is that it?"
"Not nearly."
Emotion rendered Bailey, for him, almost vulgar.
"I guess you hate yourself!" he snapped.
"No sir" beamed Ruth. "I think I'm perfectly beautiful."
Bailey grunted. Ruth came to him and gave him a sisterly kiss. She was
very fond of Bailey, though she declined to reverence him.
"Cheer up, Bailey boy," she said. "Don't you worry yourself. There's a
method in my madness. I'll find him sooner or later, and then you'll be
glad I waited."
"Him? what do you mean?"
"Why, him, of course. The ideal young man. That's who, or is it
whom?, I'm waiting for. Bailey, shall I tell you something? You're so
scarlet already, poor boy, you ought not to rush around in this hot
weather, that it won't make you blush. It's this. I'm ambitious. I mean
to marry the finest man in the world and have the greatest little old
baby you ever dreamed of. By the way, now I remember, I told Clarence
that."
Bailey uttered a strangled exclamation.
"It has made you blush! You turned purple. Well, now you know. I
mean my baby to be the most splendid baby that was ever born. He's
going to be strong and straight and clever and handsome, and, oh,
everything else you can think of. That's why I'm waiting for the ideal
young man. If I don't find him I shall die an old maid. But I shall
find him. We may pass each other on Fifth Avenue. We may sit next each
other at a theatre. Wherever it is, I shall just reach right out and
grab him and whisk him away. And if he's married already, he'll have to
get a divorce. And I shan't care who he is. He may be any one. I don't
mind if he's a ribbon clerk or a prize-fighter or a policeman or a
cab-driver, so long as he's the right man."
Bailey plied the handkerchief on his streaming forehead. The heat of
the day and the horror of this conversation were reducing his weight at
the rate of ounces a minute. In his most jaundiced mood he had never
imagined these frightful sentiments to be lurking in Ruth's mind.
"You can't mean that!" he cried.
"I mean every word of it," said Ruth. "I hope, for your sake, he won't
turn out to be a waiter or a prize-fighter, but it won't make any
difference to me."
"You're crazy!"
"Well, just now you said Aunt Lora was. If she is, I am."
"I knew it! I said she had been putting these ghastly ideas into your
head. I'd like to strangle that woman."
"Don't you try! Have you ever felt Aunt Lora's biceps? It's like a
man's. She does dumb-bells every morning."
"I've a good mind to speak to father. Somebody's got to make you stop
this insanity."
"Just as you please. But you know how father hates to be worried about
things that don't concern business."
Bailey did. His father, of whom he stood in the greatest awe, was very
little interested in any subject except the financial affairs of the
firm of Bannister & Son. It required greater courage than Bailey
possessed to place this matter before him. He had an uneasy feeling
that Ruth knew it.
"I would, if it were necessary," he said. "But I don't believe you're
serious."
"Stick to that idea as long as ever you can, Bailey dear," said Ruth.
"It will comfort you."
Chapter III The Mates Meet
Kirk Winfield was an amiable, if rather weak, young man with whom life,
for twenty-five years, had dealt kindly. He had perfect health, an
income more than sufficient for his needs, a profession which
interested without monopolizing him, a thoroughly contented
disposition, and the happy knack of surrounding himself with friends.
That he had to contribute to the support of the majority of these
friends might have seemed a drawback to some men. Kirk did not object
to it in the least. He had enough money to meet their needs, and, being
a sociable person who enjoyed mixing with all sorts and conditions of
men, he found the Liberty Hall regime pleasant.
He liked to be a magnet, attracting New York's Bohemian population. If
he had his preferences among the impecunious crowd who used the studio
as a chapel of ease, strolling in when it pleased them, drinking his
whisky, smoking his cigarettes, borrowing his money, and, on occasion,
his spare bedrooms and his pyjamas, he never showed it. He was fully as
pleasant to Percy Shanklyn, the elegant, perpetually resting English
actor, whom he disliked as far as he was capable of disliking any one,
as he was to Hank Jardine, the prospector, and Hank's prize-fighter
friend, Steve Dingle, both of whom he liked enormously.
It seemed to him sometimes that he had drifted into the absolutely
ideal life. He lived entirely in the present. The passage of time left
him untouched. Day followed day, week followed week, and nothing seemed
to change. He was never unhappy, never ill, never bored.
He would get up in the morning with the comfortable knowledge that the
day held no definite duties. George Pennicut would produce one of his
excellent breakfasts. The next mile-stone would be the arrival of Steve
Dingle. Five brisk rounds with Steve, a cold bath, and a rub-down took
him pleasantly on to lunch, after which it amused him to play at
painting.
There was always something to do when he wearied of that until, almost
before the day had properly begun, up came George with one of his
celebrated dinners. And then began the incursion of his friends. One by
one they would drop in, making themselves very much at home, to help
their host through till bedtime. And another day would slip into the
past.
It never occurred to Kirk that he was wasting his life. He had no
ambitions. Ambition is born of woman, and no woman that he had ever met
had ever stirred him deeply. He had never been in love, and he had come
to imagine that he was incapable of anything except a mild liking for
women. He considered himself immune, and was secretly glad of it. He
enjoyed his go-as-you-please existence too much to want to have it
upset. He belonged, in fact, to the type which, when the moment
arrives, falls in love very suddenly, very violently, and for all time.
Nothing could have convinced him of this. He was like a child lighting
matches in a powder-magazine. When the idea of marriage crossed his
mind he thrust it from him with a kind of shuddering horror. He could
not picture to himself a woman who could compensate him for the loss of
his freedom and, still less, of his friends.
His friends were men's men; he could not see them fitting into a scheme
of life that involved the perpetual presence of a hostess. Hank
Jardine, for instance. To Kirk, the great point about Hank was that he
had been everywhere, seen everything, and was, when properly stimulated
with tobacco and drink, a fountain of reminiscence. But he could not
talk unless he had his coat off and his feet up on the back of a chair.
No hostess could be expected to relish that.
Hank was a bachelor's friend; he did not belong in a married household.