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It fitted absolutely the quiet kindliness, the faded face and soft brown dress of its mistress. It was keyed to her, as Constance had understood, to the last detail. "Yes," said Farraday, smiling down the table at his mother, "she could hardly bring herself to let me build my picture gallery on the end of the house nothing but Christian charity enabled her to yield."
I'm afraid you may be making it convenient out of kindness." "Mary, how British!" Stefan interrupted. He had taken lately so to labeling her small conventionalities. "Why accuse Mr. Farraday of altruistic insincerity? I think his description sounds delightful. Let's go tomorrow and see the cottage." "If you will wait till Sunday," Farraday smiled, "I shall be delighted to drive you out.
"I'm sorry I have to run away now," Farraday continued almost hurriedly. "You know what a busy man I am." He shook hands with Stefan. "A thousand congratulations," he said. "Good-bye, Mrs. Byrd; I enjoyed my cup of tea with you immensely." The hand he offered her was cold; he hardly looked up. "You will let me have some more stories, won't you? I shall count on them.
Later we started the two other magazines, always keeping before us our aim of giving the average home the best there is. To-day, though I have no children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort of uncle to thousands." He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for a minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks Farraday replaced it. "Well, Mrs.
The old lady smiled back at her tall son almost like a sweetheart. "He humors me," she said; "he knows I'm a foolish old woman who love, my nest as it was first prepared for me." "Oh, I can so well understand that," said Mary. "Do you mean to say, Mrs. Farraday," interposed Stefan, "that you have lived in this one house, without changing it, all your married life?"
But of this Mary could express nothing, save through her face she had never looked more beautiful. Coming into the dining room she found Farraday watching her. He seemed tired. She put out her hand. "May we really have it? You are sure?" "You like it?" he smiled, holding the hand. She flushed with the effort to express herself. "I adore it. I can't thank you." "Please don't," he answered.
It will be some other brilliant egoist who will thrill her, grind her heart, and give her wonderful children. She is an instrument. As I think I once heard poor Byrd say, she is not merely an expression of life, she is life." James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. "Come, son, we must be going," murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her knitting.
Mary's literary sense of fitness was completely satisfied by this remark, which was received by Moses with a smile of gentle pride. "James," said Constance, "I never get tired of your mother's house; it is so wonderful to have not one thing out of key." Farraday smiled. "Bless you, she wouldn't change a footstool.
Yet he had always known Farraday for one; and certainly Gunther, who modeled her, and McEwan, who dogged her footsteps, could admire her no less than the editor. The thought that his wife was sought after, that he was probably envied by other men, warmed Stefan's heart pleasantly, just as Constance intended it should.
"What about the child?" "He's alive, but she takes very little notice of him. He spends most of his time with Mrs. Farraday, who is a saint. James, poor man, adores children, and is glad to have him." "Why hasn't Mr. Farraday married, I wonder?" Mary murmured under the covering purr of the car. "Oh, what a waste," groaned Constance. "An ideal husband thrown away! Nobody knows, my dear.
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