He chuckled at the memory.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Jerry jumped over the wheel, caught the man by the collar of his coat and threw him into the street.  He was a big ’un too.”

Ballard lingered provokingly in the narrative, which was interesting me greatly.

“And then?” I asked.

“The fellow rose, covered with slime, looking vicious.

“‘What did you mean taking God’s name in vain?’ says Jerry sternly.

“‘I’ll show you, you—­’

“He came in with a rush, grimy fists flying.  Jerry feinted just once, side-stepped and caught him prettily on the point of the jaw.  The blow was beautifully timed, and the fellow dropped like a log.”

“And then?”

“A crowd was gathering and so we ducked—­I slipped Jerry into a hotel entrance near by and out we went by another way.”  Ballard paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.  “You see, he’s already giving battle to society.  A walk abroad with Jerry is an adventure which may end in metaphysics or the jail.  But it won’t do, Roger, tilting at wind-mills like that.  He can’t make New York like Horsham Manor—­at least not all at once.”

“He’d try that if he could,” I laughed.

“It will be a slow business, I’m afraid.  New York is quite contented to be exactly what she is.  And the women!” He emitted a tenuous whistle.  And then, “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you, Pope, that all these years you’ve been sheltering the Apollo Belvedere.”

“He is good looking.  Thank God he doesn’t know it.”

“He will in time.  It’s really a shame the way the women stare at him on the street.  He’s never through blushing when he isn’t asking questions.

“‘What do those women look at me for?’ he asks.  ’Nothing queer about me, is there?’

“‘Oh, no,’ I reply.  ’They look at everybody like that.  It’s a characteristic of the sex, curiosity.  You don’t mind, do you?’

“’Oh, I suppose not.  I rather like it when the pretty ones do.  How red their cheeks are and their lips!  It must be much more healthful in the city than I had supposed.’”

“Rouge?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.  Even the flappers do it.  It takes good eyesight to tell ’em from the dowagers nowadays.”

“And Jerry doesn’t know the difference?”

“I think he’s beginning to.  A few days ago I met an old girl I know, Mrs. Warrington, walking with Marcia Van Wyck; you know, the heiress, who has the big place up near Horsham Manor—­father, mother both dead.  Spoiled all her life.  Lives with a companion, you know,—­poor relation.  They stopped us—­mere curiosity—­not to talk to me, bless your heart, but to see Jerry.  It seems they’d heard we’d turned him loose, and guessed who my companion was.  We talked awhile and Marcia asked us to call.  When they went off.  Jerry turned to me in a stage whisper: 

“‘Jack, that lady has paint on her face.’