Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 2, 2025
"Good heavens! you might have been killed," fussed Mr. Elliot. Farraday looked pale, the women laughed excitedly. "Mary," cried Stefan, his face flashing with eagerness, "you weren't frightened, were you?" She shook her head, still breathless. "It was glorious, you were like storm gods. I've never seen anything so inspiring." And he embraced her before them all.
"Yes, it's on the easel, covered, you see," she answered. "Stefan must have the honor of showing you that himself." "I wish you would tell me, Mrs. Byrd," said Farraday, changing the subject, "how you happened to write those verses? Had you been brought up with children, younger brothers and sisters, for instance?" Mary shook her head. "No, I'm the younger of two.
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?"
"Then I'll be getting home, Byrd," he said, offering his hand to Stefan. "My warmest congratulations. Let me know if there's anything I can do." Stefan shook the proffered hand with a deeper liking than he had yet felt for this silent man. "I'm everlastingly grateful to you, Farraday, for helping me out, and Mary will be, too. I don't know how I could have stood it alone."
In a week it had gone to Farraday at his office, complete all but three chapters, of which she enclosed an outline. With it she sent a purely formal note, asking, in the event of the book being accepted, what terms the Company could offer her, and whether she could be paid partly in advance. She put the request tentatively, knowing nothing of the method of paying for serials.
She liked the white coat of this autocrat of the road, and the smart, muslin trimmings of the colored maid. She and Stefan had the compartment next their host's; Farraday and McEwan shared one beyond; Gunther and his skis and Walter, the Elliot's younger son, completely filled the next; Mrs.
"You are a good sort, Mary," he said, smiling in reply; "it's restful to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?" He stretched luxuriously on the sofa. She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad elfin cadences had charmed her.
How can I teach Jamie English with his father's example before him?" She shook a tiny finger at the offender. "Ma'am, if I didn't sling the lingo, begging your pardon, in my office, they would think I was a highbrow, and then good night Mac!" "Don't believe him, Mother," said Farraday. "It isn't policy, but affection. He loves the magazine crowd, and likes to do as it does.
"Good morning, Mr. McEwan Spring one-O-two-four," she greeted him. "'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday," he economized. "M'st Farraday M'st McEwan an' lady t'see you. Yes. M'st Farraday'll see you right away. 'Sthis three-one hundred? Hold th' line, please," said the operator in one breath, connecting two calls and waving McEwan forward simultaneously.
"In Paris I used the worst argot of the quarter, but I've always spoken straightforward English because the only slang I knew in my own tongue reminded me of a place I loathed." "Stefan used to be dreadfully unpatriotic, Mrs. Farraday," explained Mary, "but he is outgrowing it." "Am I?" Stefan asked rather pointedly. "Art," said McEwan grandly, "is international; Byrd belongs to the world."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking