Ranken Townsend had arranged a sitting with Madame Mascheri, the famous
opera singer, at eleven o'clock. He entered his studio at ten, and the
first thing he did was to ring up one of his best friends and get into a
quarrel with him. He had already so surprised his old servant at
breakfast that she had retired to the kitchen in tears. He was angry and
sore and there was likely to be a nice clash in the studio when he said
sharp things to the spoiled lady who considered that all men were in
their proper places only when they were at her feet.
Ranken Townsend was more than angry. He was disappointed--mentally
sick--completely out of gear. He had seen Peter Guthrie--and there was
no argument about the fact--come out of a notorious house, dishevelled
and apparently drunk. It was a sad blow to him. A bad shock. The effects
of it had kept him awake nearly all night. Betty was the apple of his
eye. He was going to protect her at all costs, and he knew that in doing
so he must bring great unhappiness into her life. He had believed in
Peter Guthrie. He had seemed to him to be a big, strong, clean, honest,
simple, true fellow who had gone straight and who meant to continue to
go straight. It meant a tremendous amount, an altogether incalculable
amount to him as a father to have found that his estimate was wrong. He
realized perfectly well that his words had been harsh the night before.
He detested to have been obliged to say them; but, for the sake of his
little girl, he was not going back on them. The evidence was too strong.
The telephone bell rang. He stalked across to it. "Well?" he said.
"What's that? Who did you say? Send him up at once." And then, with his
jaw set and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he took up a stand
in the middle of the studio and waited.
It was Peter. He came in quietly and looked very tired. "Good morning,
Mr. Townsend," he said.