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Updated: May 3, 2025
Farraday, too, sometimes dropped in in the evening, to sit on the porch with Stefan and Mary and talk quietly of books and the like. Occasionally he came with McEwan or Jamie; he never came alone though this she had not noticed at hours when Stefan was unlikely to be with her. At the suggestion of Mrs.
"He's the busiest man in New York, but he always has time," McEwan explained, and, indeed, nothing could have been more unhurried than the whole atmosphere of both man and room. Mary said so. "Yes, I must have quiet or I can't work," Farraday replied. "My windows face the back, you see, and my walls are double; I doubt if there's a quieter office in New York."
The car stopped under a porte cochere, before a long brown house of heavy clapboards, with shingled roof and green blinds. Farraday jumped down and helped Mary out, and the front door opened to reveal the shining grin of McEwan, poised above the gray head of a little lady who advanced with outstretched hand to greet them. "My mother Mrs. Byrd," Farraday introduced.
Reaching the gate, she gave an involuntary cry. McEwan was stumbling toward her almost like a drunken man. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot; a morning paper trailed loosely from his hand. "Mary," he cried, "I came back from the station to see ye hae ye heard, my girl?" "Wallace!" she exclaimed, frightened, "what is it? What has happened?"
These stars had able assistance in the persons of McEwan, one of the greatest centers the game has seen and who was chosen to lead the team in 1916, Weyand, Neyland and O'Hare, among the forwards, and the brilliant and sturdy Oliphant in the backfield, the man whose slashing play against the Navy in 1915 will never be forgotten. Oliphant was of a most unusual type.
Constance's eyes narrowed to slits, she fingered her beads, and nodded once, twice. "More trouble," she said, "but it's a go. Second week in January." He grasped her hand. "Votes for Women," he beamed. She looked at her watch. "Five minutes exactly. Three inches, Mr. McEwan!" "Three inches!" he called from the door. Christmas was a blank period for Mary that year.
"Now you mention it, I think they did say Paris when I was last in the shop." "Byrd is in Paris, you know," said McEwan, meeting her eyes. "Ah!" said Constance, and she stared at him, her lids narrowing. "I hadn't thought of that possibility." She fingered her jade beads. "I wonder if you ever write her?" he asked. "I never write any one, my dear man, and, besides, what could I say?"
"What about the Farradays, and Constance, and the Sparrow and Lily and Henrik and McEwan and the Havens and Madame Corriani and " "Oh, stop!" she laughed, covering his mouth with her hand. "And even in Paris," he concluded, holding the hand, "Adolph, and yes, and Felicity Berber. Are they all 'prejudiced in your favor'?" "Why do you include the last named?" she asked, rather low.
I knew you didn't want the picture shown, but it's got to be done some day, hasn't it? It seemed a shame for McEwan not to see what you have inspired. I ought not to have shown it without asking you, but his appreciation justified me, don't you think?" His tone coaxed. Mary was choking back her tears. Explanations, excuses, were to her trivial, nor was she capable of them.
While he was gone Mary arranged an impromptu farewell party for him, so that instead of spending a rather depressing evening alone with her, as he had expected, he found himself surrounded by cheerful friends McEwan, the Farradays, their next neighbors, the Havens, and one or two others.
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