“Something in that. There’s just one objection to this sterilized nursery business, though, which she doesn’t seem to have detected. How am I going to provide these things on an income of five thousand and at the same time live in that luxury which the artist soul demands? Bill, my lad, you’ll have to sacrifice yourself for your father’s good. When I’m a millionaire we’ll see about it. Meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile,” said Ruth, “come and be dried before you catch your death of cold.” She gathered William Bannister into her lap.
“I pity any germ that tries to play catch-as-catch-can with that infant,” remarked Kirk. “He’d simply flatten it out in a round. Did you ever see such a chest on a kid of that age?”
It was after the installation of Whiskers at the studio that the diminution of Mrs. Porter’s visits became really marked. There was something almost approaching a battle over Whiskers, who was an Irish terrier puppy which Hank Jardine had presented to William Bannister as a belated birthday present.
Mrs. Porter utterly excommunicated Whiskers. Nothing, she maintained, was so notoriously supercharged with bacilli as a long-haired dog. If this was true, William Bannister certainly gave them every chance to get to work upon himself. It was his constant pleasure to clutch Whiskers to him in a vice-like clinch, to bury his face in his shaggy back, and generally to court destruction. Yet the more he clutched, the healthier did he appear to grow, and Mrs. Porter’s demand for the dog’s banishment was overruled.
Mrs. Porter retired in dudgeon. She liked to rule, and at No. 90 she felt that she had become merely among those present. She was in the position of a mother country whose colony has revolted. For years she had been accustomed to look on Ruth as a disciple, a weaker spirit whom she could mould to her will, and now Ruth was refusing to be moulded.
So Mrs. Porter’s visits ceased. Ruth still saw her at the apartment when she cared to go there, but she kept away from the studio. She considered that in the matter of William Bannister her claim had been jumped, that she had been deposed; and she withdrew.
“I shall bear up,” said Kirk, when this fact was brought home to him. “I mistrust your Aunt Lora as I should mistrust some great natural force which may become active at any moment and give you yours. An earthquake, for instance. I have no quarrel with your Aunt Lora in her quiescent state, but I fear the developments of that giant mind. We are better off without her.”
“All the same,” said Ruth loyally, “she’s rather a dear. And we ought to remember that, if it hadn’t been for her, you and I would never have met.”
“I do remember it. And I’m grateful. But I can’t help feeling that a woman capable of taking other people’s lives and juggling with them as if they were india-rubber balls as she did with ours, is likely at any moment to break out in a new place. My gratitude to her is the sort of gratitude you would feel toward a cyclone if you were walking home late for dinner and it caught you up and deposited you on your doorstep. Your Aunt Lora is a human cyclone. No, on the whole, she’s more like an earthquake. She has a habit of splitting up and altering the face of the world whenever she feels like it, and I’m too well satisfied with my world at present to relish the idea of having it changed.”