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Updated: May 3, 2025
McEwan," smiled Constance, tapping his knee with her fan. "All this was your idea, and you are a good fellow. From this moment, I intend to call you by your first name." "Aye, aye," beamed McEwan, more broadly than before, extending a huge hand; "that'll be grand." The dance was the climax of the week.
She followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky sentences and crisp manner the very antithesis of his former Scottish heaviness. "Mr. McEwan, what an actor you would have made!" She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with pretended caution, then stooped to her ear. "Hoots, lassie!" he whispered, with a solemn wink.
Miss Elliston, who had promised to sing, went below a little earlier than usual to dress for dinner. Byrd had tried to dissuade her from taking part, but she was firm. "It's a frightful bother," she said, "but I can't get out of it. I promised Mr. McEwan, you know." "I won't say any further what I think of McEwan," replied Stefan, laughing.
Defeated, he was obliged to fetch a cup. When he returned, it was to find her talking monosyllabic English to a group of men. Farraday and McEwan had temporarily resigned Mary to a stream of newcomers, and stood watching the scene from the inner drawing room. "James," said McEwan, "get on to the makeup of the crowd round our lady, and compare it with the specimens rubbering the little Berber."
"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.
"What do you do while you're waiting for her?" asked Mary, who could not imagine Stefan enduring with equanimity such a tax upon his patience. "Oh, there's tremendous work to be done on the Nixie still," he answered. "It's only her part in it that is finished." One evening he came home with a grievance. "That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day," he complained.
McEwan greeted him with a "Hello," and shook hands warmly with the two women. They all moved into the hall, Mary under the wing of Mrs. Farraday, who presently took her upstairs to a bedroom. "Thee must rest here before dinner," said she, smoothing with a tiny hand the crocheted bedspread. "Ring this bell if there is anything thee wants. Shall I send Mr. Byrd up to thee?"
"I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is so wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now she's contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow." Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, "Why do you call that little vulgarian by her first name?" but retaliatory methods were impossible to her.
I'll arrange it." She hurried out, leaving McEwan smiling at nothing in visible contentment. In a few minutes she returned with Mary. "Of course I will if you wish it," the latter was saying, "but I've no music, and only know foolish little ballads." "Mr. McEwan says he can vamp them all, and it will be too delightful to have something from each of my women stars," Constance urged.
"Here comes Mr. McEwan," she whispered, in the hushed voice reserved by her simple type for allusions to the afflicted. "Oh, poor dear," said Mary, hurrying across the lawn to meet him. She felt more than ever sympathetic toward him, for Mac's wife had died in a New Hampshire sanitarium only a few weeks before, and all his hopes of mending her poor broken spirit were at an end.
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