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Updated: May 2, 2025
One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she could consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after dinner, to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood fire and the two sleeping lovebirds. James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two or three weeks since he had seen Mary.
A mere American can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?" "Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman," laughed Mary. "He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came over," said Farraday.
Farraday, in his most correct cutaway, personally conducted a tour of three eminent critics to the Village. Sir Micah, the English curator of the Metropolitan, reflectively tapping an eye-glass upon an uplifted finger tip, pronounced the painting a turning-point in American art.
So lonely was she at this time that she would have asked little Miss Mason to stay with her, but for the lack of a spare bedroom. Of all her friends, only Mrs. Farraday remained at hand. Mary spent many hours at the old lady's house, and rejoiced each time the pony chaise brought her to the Byrdsnest. Mrs.
Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. "Let me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except our friend Mac." He smiled whimsically. "When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to having a home of my own, and children.
"Oh, Stefan!" She could almost have wept. Farraday helped her down. "Mrs. Byrd," said he with his most kindly smile, "here is the key. Would you like to unlock the door yourself?" She blushed with pleasure. "Oh, yes!" she cried, and turned instinctively to look for Stefan. He was standing at the plateau's edge, scrutinizing the view. She called, but he did not hear.
If you like, I will give you a lease a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you could feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year." "But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place, and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask you for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!" "Mrs. Byrd."
She might have wondered, but she did not, for she felt too intensely in these days to have much need of thought. She loved her husband he was a great man they were to have a child. The sense of those three facts made up her cosmos. Farraday had asked her in vain on more than one occasion for another manuscript.
Mary was obliged to laugh. "You exasperating creature!" she said, and went to bed, while he ran up to the studio to pull out the folding easel and sketching-box of his old Brittany days. When on the following Sunday morning Farraday drove up to the house, Mary was delighted to find Constance Elliot in the tonneau.
But I've always loved children more than anything in the world." She blushed, and Farraday, watching her, realized for the first time what a certain heightened radiance in her face betokened. He smiled very sweetly at her. She in her turn saw that he knew, and was glad. His manner seemed to enfold her in a mantle of comfort and understanding. As they finished their tea, Stefan arrived.
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