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Updated: May 16, 2025
The two big pictures, "Tempest," and "Pursuit," now hung stretched but unframed, on either side of the room. Farraday's gaze kept returning to them. "Those are his Beaux Arts pictures; extraordinary, aren't they?" said Mary, following his eyes. "They certainly are. Remarkably powerful. I understand there is another, though, that he has only just finished?"
New York was still strained and breathless from Saturday's horror. Men sat idle in their offices reading edition after edition of the papers, rage mounting in their hearts. Flags were at half mast. Little work was being done anywhere save at the newspaper offices, which were keyed to the highest pitch. Farraday's office was hushed.
"They are small chalk and charcoal studies of the spirit of the city mere impressions," he explained, putting the drawings in Farraday's hands with a gesture which belied the carelessness of his words. Farraday glanced at them, looked again, rose, and carried them to the window, where he examined them carefully, one by one. Mary watched him breathlessly, Stefan with unconcealed triumph.
A car honked in the lane. They were here. She jumped up and ran to the gate, wheeling the waiting chair outside it. Farraday's big car rounded the bend three men sat in the tonneau. Seeing them, Mary ran suddenly back inside the gate; her eyes fell, she dared not look. The car had stopped. Through half-raised lids she saw James alight. The chauffeur ran to the chair.
He was the more baffled as he could not dismiss Farraday's critical pretensions with contempt, the editor being too obviously a man of cultivation. Now, however, that attention had been turned to his own work, Stefan was at his ease. Here, he felt, was no room for doubts.
The imbecile boy, the laughing-stock of the street, and followed by a mob hooting at him, has only just to knock once at the gate of heaven, and it swings open: while there has been many a man who can lecture about pneumatics, and chemistry, and tell the story of Farraday's theory of electrical polarization, and yet has been shut out of heaven.
There was a roaring fire, but the room was empty even Lily had found work upstairs. For an hour more Stefan prowled then he rang up the Farraday's house. After an interval James' voice answered him. "It's Byrd, Farraday," said Stefan. "No " quickly "everything's perfectly all right, perfectly, but it's going on. Could you come over?"
Youth and hope were in the house, youth was in the air and earth. Farraday's gardens were the pride of the neighborhood, these and the library expressing him as the house did his mother. Several times he sent down an armful of flowers to the Byrdsnest, and, one Sunday morning, Mary had just finished arranging such a bunch in her vases when she heard the chug of an automobile in the lane.
Farraday turned on her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint comprehension of McEwan's advocacy. "She's got a story with her for you to see," went on that enthusiast. "I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred dollars good enough. There's the script." He took it from her, and flattened it out on Farraday's table. "Look it over and write her."
You've got to treat yourself right. Good-bye," nodded the little woman; and was gone in her usual brisk fashion. It was the day of Mr. Farraday's expected call, and Miss Mason had hardly departed when the bell rang. Mary hastily put away her sewing and pressed the electric button which opened the downstairs door to visitors.
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