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Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall. "Hello, Byrd," he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room door as he came in; "down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of our friend Twinkle-Toes?" Stefan's eyebrows went up.
"At least let me arrange for it," he urged. "Now, son, thee must not keep Mrs. Byrd out too late. Get her home before sundown," Mrs. Farraday's voice admonished. Obediently, every one moved toward the hall. At a word from McEwan, the mute Jamie ran to open the tonneau door.
A little before Christmas McEwan called on Constance, and found her immersed in preparations for a Suffrage bazaar and fete. "I can't talk to any one," she announced, receiving him in a chaos of boxes, banners, paper flowers, and stenographers, in the midst of which she appeared to be working with two voices and six hands. "Didn't the maid warn you off the premises?"
"So I have," replied Stefan; "they are the only two with a spark of the picturesque, or one iota of originality." "You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on a cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring grape- juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background. Label it 'Morituri salutamus' I bet it would sell," said McEwan hopefully.
In the drawing room the little Elliston's presents were displayed, a beautiful old cup from Farraday, a christening robe, and a spoon, "pusher," and fork from Constance, a silver bowl "For Elliston's porridge from his friend Wallace McEwan," and a Bible in stout leather binding from Mrs. Farraday, inscribed in her delicate, slanting hand.
"Now I'll leave you two to arrange it, and in a few minutes I'll get every one back from the dining room," she nodded, slipping away again. "Cruel man, you've given me away," Mary smiled. "I always brag about my friends," grinned McEwan. They went over to the piano. "What price the Bard! Do you know this?" His fingers ran into the old air for "Sigh No More, Ladies." She nodded.
Oh, I don't think that would be fair," she said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone it made him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant. The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers, equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan.
All his earnings, he explained, were going into investments. The man was, in fact, speculating in mining stocks. One day McEwan came home with a face of despair. His creditors, he told his wife, had descended on him, seized his business, and threatened to take possession of the boarding house. "But it is mine," protested the woman, with spirit.
She had never spoken of her month-long wait, but Wallace always knew things without being told. No, she was sure there was no letter. "It's too hot here in the sun," she thought, and walked slowly into the house. "Here we are," called McEwan cheerily as he entered the sitting room. "It's a light mail to-day.
As she waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous fling upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that the dance was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than McEwan, sprucely tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but unmistakable for all that.
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