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Mrs. Lora Delane Porter dismissed the hireling who had brought herautomobile around from the garage and seated herself at the wheel. Itwas her habit to refresh her mind and improve her health by a dailydrive between the hours of two and four in the afternoon.

　　The world knows little of its greatest women, and it is possible thatMrs. Porter's name is not familiar to you. If this is the case, I ampained, but not surprised. It happens only too often that the uplifterof the public mind is baulked by a disinclination on the part of thepublic mind to meet him or her half-way. The uplifter does his share.

　　He produces the uplifting book. But the public, instead of standingstill to be uplifted, wanders off to browse on coloured supplements andmagazine stories.

　　If you are ignorant of Lora Delane Porter's books that is your affair.

　　Perhaps you are more to be pitied than censured. Nature probably gaveyou the wrong shape of forehead. Mrs. Porter herself would have putit down to some atavistic tendency or pre-natal influence. She putmost things down to that. She blamed nearly all the defects of themodern world, from weak intellects to in-growing toe-nails, onlong-dead ladies and gentlemen who, safe in the family vault, imaginedthat they had established their alibi. She subpoenaed grandfathersand even great-grandfathers to give evidence to show that the reasonTwentieth-Century Willie squinted or had to spend his winters inArizona was their own shocking health 'way back in the days beyondrecall.

　　Mrs. Porter's mind worked backward and forward. She had one eye on thepast, the other on the future. If she was strong on heredity, she wasstronger on the future of the race. Most of her published works dealtwith this subject. A careful perusal of them would have enabled therising generation to select its ideal wife or husband with perfectease, and, in the event of Heaven blessing the union, her littlevolume, entitled "The Hygienic Care of the Baby," which was all aboutgerms and how to avoid them, would have insured the continuance of thedirect succession.

　　Unfortunately, the rising generation did not seem disposed to a carefulperusal of anything except the baseball scores and the beauty hints inthe Sunday papers, and Mrs. Porter's public was small. In fact, heronly real disciple, as she sometimes told herself in her rare moods ofdiscouragement, was her niece, Ruth Bannister, daughter of JohnBannister, the millionaire. It was not so long ago, she reflected withpride, that she had induced Ruth to refuse to marry Basil Milbank--aconsiderable feat, he being a young man of remarkable personalattractions and a great match in every way. Mrs. Porter's objection tohim was that his father had died believing to the last that he was ateapot.

　　There is nothing evil or degrading in believing oneself a teapot, butit argues a certain inaccuracy of the thought processes; and Mrs.

　　Porter had used all her influence with Ruth to make her reject Basil.

　　It was her success that first showed her how great that influence was.

　　She had come now to look on Ruth's destiny as something for which shewas personally responsible--a fact which was noted and resented byothers, in particular Ruth's brother Bailey, who regarded his aunt witha dislike and suspicion akin to that which a stray dog feels towardsthe boy who saunters towards him with a tin can in his hand.

　　To Bailey, his strong-minded relative was a perpetual menace, a sort ofperambulating yellow peril, and the fact that she often alluded to himas a worm consolidated his distaste for her.

　　* * * * *Mrs. Porter released the clutch and set out on her drive. She rarelyhad a settled route for these outings of hers, preferring to zigzagabout New York, livening up the great city at random. She always droveherself and, having, like a good suffragist, a contempt for maleprohibitions, took an honest pleasure in exceeding a man-made speedlimit.

　　One hesitates to apply the term "joy-rider" to so eminent a leader ofcontemporary thought as the authoress of "The Dawn of Better Things,""Principles of Selection," and "What of To-morrow?" but candour compelsthe admission that she was a somewhat reckless driver. Perhaps it wasdue to some atavistic tendency. One of her ancestors may have been aRoman charioteer or a coach-racing maniac of the Regency days. At anyrate, after a hard morning's work on her new book she felt that hermind needed cooling, and found that the rush of air against her faceeffected this satisfactorily. The greater the rush, the quicker thecooling. However, as the alert inhabitants of Manhattan Island, a hardyrace trained from infancy to dodge taxicabs and ambulance wagons, hadalways removed themselves from her path with their usual agility, shehad never yet had an accident.

　　But then she had never yet met George Pennicut. And George, pawn offate, was even now waiting round the corner to upset her record.

　　George, man of all work to Kirk Winfield, one of the youngest and leastefficient of New York's artist colony, was English. He had been inAmerica some little time, but not long enough to accustom his ratherunreceptive mind to the fact that, whereas in his native land vehicleskept to the left, in the country of his adoption they kept to theright; and it was still his bone-headed practice, when stepping off thesidewalk, to keep a wary look-out in precisely the wrong direction.

　　The only problem with regard to such a man is who will get him first.

　　Fate had decided that it should be Lora Delane Porter.

　　To-day Mrs. Porter, having circled the park in rapid time, turned hercar down Central Park West. She was feeling much refreshed by thepleasant air. She was conscious of a glow of benevolence toward herspecies, not excluding even the young couple she had almost reduced tomincemeat in the neighbourhood of Ninety-Seventh Street. They hadannoyed her extremely at the time of their meeting by occupying tillthe last possible moment a part of the road which she wanted herself.

　　On reaching Sixty-First Street she found her way blocked by a lumberingdelivery wagon. She followed it slowly for a while; then, growing tiredof being merely a unit in a procession, tugged at the steering-wheel,and turned to the right.

　　George Pennicut, his anxious eyes raking the middle distance--asusual, in the wrong direction--had just stepped off the kerb. Hereceived the automobile in the small of the back, uttered a yell ofsurprise and dismay, performed a few improvised Texas Tommy steps, andfell in a heap.

　　In a situation which might have stimulated another to fervid speech,George Pennicut contented himself with saying "Goo!" He was a man offew words.

　　Mrs. Porter stopped the car. From all points of the compass citizensbegan to assemble, many swallowing their chewing-gum in theirexcitement. One, a devout believer in the inscrutable ways ofProvidence, told a friend as he ran that only two minutes before he hadalmost robbed himself of this spectacle by going into a moving-picturepalace.

　　Mrs. Porter was annoyed. She had never run over anything before excepta few chickens, and she regarded the incident as a blot on herescutcheon. She was incensed with this idiot who had flung himselfbefore her car, not reflecting in her heat that he probably had apre-natal tendency to this sort of thing inherited from some ancestorwho had played "last across" in front of hansom cabs in the streets ofLondon.

　　She bent over George and passed experienced hands over his portly form.

　　For this remarkable woman was as competent at first aid as at anythingelse. The citizens gathered silently round in a circle.

　　"It was your fault," she said to her victim severely. "I accept noliability whatever. I did not run into you. You ran into me. I have ajolly good mind to have you arrested for attempted suicide."This aspect of the affair had not struck Mr. Pennicut. Presented to himin these simple words, it checked the recriminatory speech which, hismind having recovered to some extent from the first shock of themeeting, he had intended to deliver. He swallowed his words, awed. Hefelt dazed and helpless. Mrs. Porter had that effect upon men.

　　Some more citizens arrived.

　　"No bones broken," reported Mrs. Porter, concluding her examination.

　　"You are exceedingly fortunate. You have a few bruises, and one knee isslightly wrenched. Nothing to signify. More frightened than hurt. Wheredo you live?""There," said George meekly.

　　"Where?""Them studios.""No. 90?""Yes, ma'am." George's voice was that of a crushed worm.

　　"Are you an artist?""No, ma'am. I'm Mr. Winfield's man.""Whose?""Mr. Winfield's, ma'am.""Is he in?""Yes, ma'am.""I'll fetch him. And if the policeman comes along and wants to know whyyou're lying there, mind you tell him the truth, that you ran into me.""Yes, ma'am.""Very well. Don't forget.""No, ma'am."She crossed the street and rang the bell over which was a card hearingthe name of "Kirk Winfield". Mr. Pennicut watched her in silence.

　　Mrs. Porter pressed the button a second time. Somebody came at aleisurely pace down the passage, whistling cheerfully. The door opened.

　　It did not often happen to Lora Delane Porter to feel insignificant,least of all in the presence of the opposite sex. She had well-definedviews upon man. Yet, in the interval which elapsed between the openingof the door and her first words, a certain sensation of smallnessovercame her.

　　The man who had opened the door was not, judged by any standard ofregularity of features, handsome. He had a rather boyish face, pleasanteyes set wide apart, and a friendly mouth. He was rather an outsize inyoung men, and as he stood there he seemed to fill the doorway.

　　It was this sense of bigness that he conveyed, his cleanness, hismagnificent fitness, that for the moment overcame Mrs. Porter. Physicalfitness was her gospel. She stared at him in silent appreciation.

　　To the young man, however, her forceful gaze did not convey thisquality. She seemed to him to be looking as if she had caught him inthe act of endeavouring to snatch her purse. He had been thrown alittle off his balance by the encounter.

　　Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, anda man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing aginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by amasterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not guessingthat her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and respect.

　　Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly tothe matter in hand.

　　"Mr. Kirk Winfield?""Yes.""Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who amblesabout New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a desertisland? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman, clean-shaven,dressed in black.""That sounds like George Pennicut.""I have no doubt that that is his name. I did not inquire. It did notinterest me. My name is Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. This man of yours hasjust run into my automobile.""I beg your pardon?""I cannot put it more lucidly. I was driving along the street when thisweak-minded person flung himself in front of my car. He is out therenow. Kindly come and help him in.""Is he hurt?""More frightened than hurt. I have examined him. His left knee appearsto be slightly wrenched."Kirk Winfield passed a hand over his left forehead and followed her.

　　Like George, he found Mrs. Porter a trifle overwhelming.