Red hair, of course, means a violent and ultra-passionate disposition, but Stanny never lost his temper. A delicate sensitiveness combined with a tenderness that would not be understood by the ordinary human being. I have seen him turn the color of castile soap if he had to do with any deformity or suffering. We had a mutual friend, a lovely boy, a humpback, who died never knowing that he caused horror to Stanford White. To shake that thin wasted hand would cause him to turn away his face with a green, seasick expression, but he would do anything rather than hurt the boy’s feelings.
One day I went out of the club with Stanny—or rather, I rushed out—he did not go out of anything, but ran and slammed the doors—when we came across a professional beggar who was well known to both of us as always being just a “quarter” shy of the fare he needed to get to New Rochelle. He had probably been on his way to New Rochelle for the last twenty years. Stanny, as was his custom, grabbed a handful of silver from his pocket and thrust it into the astonished beggar’s hand in an embarrassed way. I said:
“I suppose you know that you are not really doing him any good. They say he is rich.”
“Oh,” he answered, “you don’t understand. Do you suppose I was trying to do him good? I was only trying to justify my own existence.”
Of the most impetuous, impulsive, lovable nature, with him to think was to act. I once tried to chaff him about the way his child was being brought up. My boys, about the age of his, were always out in Gramercy Park. They had said:
“We are always together unless it rains, but if Larry White gets his feet wet, the nurse makes an awful fuss and takes him home. And she never lets him go on the grass.”
I told his father. There was a roar and a bang, and Stanford was gone out of the door. In a few minutes he was back, saying:
“He’ll play with your boys to-morrow.”
“What did you do, scold the nurse?” I asked.
“No; I fired her.”