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"Yes," said Constance, "that is the Long Island farmhouse type, as good architecturally as anything America has produced, but abandoned in favor of Oriental bungalows, Italian palaces and French chateaux." "I should adore a little house like one of those." "Wait till you see Mr. Farraday's cottage; it's a lamb, and his home like it, only bigger. What can one call an augmented lamb?
Farraday's little face fairly beamed with pride as they looked about them. "He did it all, bought every pot and pan, arranged each detail. There were no modern conveniences until old Cotter died he would not let James put them in. My boy loves this cottage; he sometimes spends several days here all alone, when he is very tired.
It is all just as when she married, and much of it, at that, belonged to her mother." This explained what, with Mary's keen eye for interiors, had puzzled her when they first arrived. She had expected to see more of the perfect taste and knowledge displayed in Farraday's office, instead of which the house, though dignified and hospitable, lacked all traces of the connoisseur.
Mary's heart warmed to him at once, he was so shy and clumsy; but Stefan, who detested the mere suspicion of loutishness, favored him with an absent-minded stare. Mary, who sat on Farraday's right, had the boy next her, with his father beyond, Stefan being between Mrs. Farraday and Constance.
While the others sat silent for a minute, their thoughts on the great struggle, Farraday's eyes ran again down that last page. "Poor Byrd," Mac wrote, "so you say he'll not last many years. Well, life would have broken him anyway, and it's grand he's found himself before the end. He's not the lasting kind, there's too much in him, and too little.
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