In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For; and in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red

It might have been by chance that Delilah Jeliffe driving in her
electric through a broad avenue on the afternoon following the
christening of Constance's baby, met Porter Bigelow, and invited him to
go home with her for a cup of tea.

There were certain things which Delilah wanted of Porter. Perhaps she
wanted more than she would ever get. But to-day she had it in her mind
to find out if he would go with her to the White House garden party.

Colin Quale was little and blond. Because of his genius, his presence
had added distinction to her entrances and exits. But at the coming
function, she knew that she needed more than the prestige of
genius--among the group of distinguished guests who would attend, the
initial impression would mean much. Porter's almost stiff stateliness
would match the gown she was to wear. His position, socially, was
impregnable; he had wealth, and youth, and charm. He would, in other
words, make a perfectly correct background for the picture which she
designed to make of herself.

The old house at Georgetown, to which they came finally, was set back
among certain blossoming shrubs and bushes. A row of tulips flamed on
each side of the walk. Small and formal cedars pointed their spired
heads toward the spring sky.

In the door, as they ascended the steps, appeared Colin Quale.

"Come in," he said, "come in at once. I want you to see what I have
done for you."