Kirk was not the only person whom the sudden change in the financialposition of the Winfield family had hit hard. The blighting effects ofsudden wealth had touched Steve while Kirk was still in Colombia.

　　In a sense, it had wrecked Steve's world. Nobody had told him to stopor even diminish the number of his visits, but the fact remained that,by the time Kirk returned to New York, he had practically ceased to goto the house on Fifth Avenue.

　　For all his roughness, Steve possessed a delicacy which sometimesalmost amounted to diffidence; and he did not need to be told thatthere was a substantial difference, as far as he was concerned, betweenthe new headquarters of the family and the old. At the studio he hadbeen accustomed to walk in when it pleased him, sure of a welcome; buthe had an idea that he did not fit as neatly into the atmosphere ofFifth Avenue as he had done into that of Sixty-First Street; and nobodydisabused him of it.

　　It was perhaps the presence of Mrs. Porter that really made thedifference. In spite of the compliments she had sometimes paid to hiscommon sense, Mrs. Porter did not put Steve at his ease. He was almostafraid of her. Consequently, when he came to Fifth Avenue, he remainedbelow stairs, talking pugilism with Keggs.

　　It was from Keggs that he first learned of the changes that had takenplace in the surroundings of William Bannister.

　　"I've 'ad the privilege of serving in some of the best houses inEngland," said the butler one evening, as they sat smoking in thepantry, "and I've never seen such goings on. I don't hold with thepampering of children.""What do you mean, pampering?" asked Steve.

　　"Well, Lord love a duck!" replied the butler, who in his moments ofrelaxation was addicted to homely expletives of the lower London type.

　　"If you don't call it pampering, what do you call pampering? He ain'tallowed to touch nothing that ain't been--it's slipped my memory whatthey call it, but it's got something to do with microbes. They sprinklestuff on his toys and on his clothes and on his nurse; what's more, andon any one who comes to see him. And his nursery ain't what _I_call a nursery at all. It's nothing more or less than a private'ospital, with its white tiles and its antiseptics and what not, andthe temperature just so and no lower nor higher. I don't call it 'avinga proper faith in Providence, pampering and fussing over a child tothat extent.""You're stringing me!""Not a bit of it, Mr. Dingle. I've seen the nursery with my own eyes,and I 'ave my information direct from the young person who looks afterthe child.""But, say, in the old days that kid was about the dandiest little sportthat ever came down the pike. You seen him that day I brought him roundto say hello to the old man. He didn't have no nursery at all then, letalone one with white tiles. I've seen him come up off the studio floorlooking like a coon with the dust. And Miss Ruth tickled to see himlike that, too. For the love of Mike, what's come to her?""It's all along of this Porter," said Keggs morosely. "She's done itall. And if," he went on with sudden heat, "she don't break her 'abitof addressing me in a tone what the 'umblest dorg would resent, I'mliable to forget my place and give her a piece of my mind. Coming roundand interfering!""Got _your_ goat, has she?" commented Steve, interested. "She'swhat you'd call a tough proposition, that dame. I used to have my eyeon her all the time in the old days, waiting for her to startsomething. But say, I'd like to see this nursery you've been talkingabout. Take me up and let me lamp it."Keggs shook his head.

　　"I daren't, Mr. Dingle. It 'ud be as much as my place is worth.""But, darn it! I'm the kid's godfather.""That wouldn't make no difference to that Porter. She'd pick on me justthe same. But, if you care to risk it, Mr. Dingle, I'll show you whereit is. You'll find the young person up there. She'll tell you moreabout the child's 'abits and daily life than I can.""Good enough," said Steve.

　　He had not seen Mamie for some time, and absence had made the heartgrow fonder. It embittered him that his meetings with her were all toorare nowadays. She seemed to have abandoned the practice of walkingaltogether, for, whenever he saw her now she was driving in theautomobile with Bill. Keggs' information about the new system threwsome light upon this and made him all the more anxious to meet her now.

　　It was a curious delusion of Steve's that he was always going to pluckup courage and propose to Mamie the very next time he saw her. This hadgone on now for over two years, but he still clung to it. Repeatedfailures to reveal his burning emotions never caused him to lose theconviction that he would do it for certain next time.

　　It was in his customary braced-up, do-or-die frame of mind that heentered the nursery now.

　　His visit to Keggs had been rather a late one and had lasted some timebefore the subject of the White Hope had been broached, with the resultthat, when Steve arrived among the white tiles and antiseptics, hefound his godson in bed and asleep. In a chair by the cot Mamie satsewing.

　　Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who the visitor was, andshe put a finger to her lip and pointed to the sleeper. And, as we haveto record another of the long list of Steve's failures to propose wemay say here, in excuse, that this reception took a great deal of theedge off the dashing resolution which had been his up to that moment.

　　It made him feel self-conscious from the start.

　　"Whatever brings you up here, Steve?" whispered Mamie.

　　It was not a very tactful remark, perhaps, considering that Steve wasthe child's godfather, and, as such, might reasonably expect to beallowed a free pass to his nursery; but Mamie, like Keggs, had fallenso under the domination of Lora Delane Porter that she had grown toconsider it almost a natural law that no one came to see Bill unlessapproved of and personally conducted by her.

　　Steve did not answer. He was gaping at the fittings of the place inwhich he found himself. It was precisely as Keggs had described it,white tiles and all.

　　He was roused from his reflections by the approach of Mamie, or,rather, not so much by her approach as by the fact that at this momentshe suddenly squirted something at him. It was cold and wet and hit himin the face before, as he put it to Keggs later, he could get his guardup.

　　"For the love of----""Sh!" said Mamie warningly.

　　"What's the idea? What are you handing me?""I've got to. It's to sterilize you. I do it to every one.""Gee! You've got a swell job! Well, go to it, then. Shoot! I'm ready.""It's boric acid," explained Mamie.

　　"I shouldn't wonder. Is this all part of the Porter circus?""Yes.""Where is she?" inquired Steve in sudden alarm. "Is she likely to buttin?""No. She's out.""Good," said Steve, and sat down, relieved, to resume his inspection ofthe room.

　　When he had finished he drew a deep breath.

　　"Well!" he said softly. "Say, Mamie, what do you think about it?""I'm not paid to think about it, Steve.""That means you agree with me that it's the punkest state of things youever struck. Well, you're quite right. It is. It's a shame to think ofthat innocent kid having this sort of deal handed to him. Why, justthink of him at the studio!"But Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. Sherefused to be drawn into a discussion on the subject.

　　"Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keggs, Steve?""Yes. It was him that told me about all this. Say, Mame, we ain't seenmuch of each other lately.""No.""Mighty little.""Yes."Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have goneresolutely ahead. After all, it is not a very long step from telling agirl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen muchof her lately to hinting that you would like to see a great deal moreof her in the future.

　　Steve was on the right lines, and he knew it; but that fatal lack ofnerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had gotas far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence, and Mamie wenton sewing.

　　In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometerand the brass knobs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; andSteve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, was stirred by it. Removethe white tiles, the thermometer the brass knobs, and the shower-bath,and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured upwhen the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dreamdreams.

　　There he was, sitting in one chair; there was Mamie, sitting inanother; and there in the corner was the little white cot--well,perhaps that was being a shade too prophetic; on the other hand, italways came into these dreams of his. There, in short, was everythingarranged just as he pictured it; and all that was needed to make thepicture real was for him to propose and Mamie to accept him.

　　It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did notnecessarily follow on to the first that had kept Steve from taking theplunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem, he fearedhis fate too much to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.

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