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She only half listened to him, and dropped him with relief, wondering if he was an anti-suffragist. Some memory of his remarks must, however, have remained with her, for after her next visit to Mary she found herself thinking that Mr. McEwan was probably neither an anti- suffragist, nor dull.
He shook his head. "Tch, tch! Quel dommage-what a pity!" he sighed, and putting down the picture undressed slowly, blew out the lamp, and went to bed. On a Saturday morning at the end of June, Mary stood by the gate of the Byrdsnest, looking down the lane. McEwan, who was taking a whole holiday from the office, had offered to fetch her mail from the village. Any moment he might be back.
"What's your address?" he shot at Mary. She produced it. "I'll remember that," McEwan nodded; "coming round to see you. There you are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on, Mrs. Byrd." He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand. "Too fast, Mac," he smiled. "I haven't had a chance yet.
"But she would na'," said McEwan emphatically. "No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it. I'm quoting verbatim," Mary laughed. McEwan nodded appreciatively.
Mary, watching, saw the spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a discarded mask the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment of malice had flashed and died he stood biting his nails, already too ashamed to glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was homage in his eyes, and gravity. "Mr.
Hillyard had it not been for a chance encounter with McEwan after her first visit. The Scotchman had hailed her in the lane, asking for a lift to a house beyond the village, where he had some small errand.
A moment more, and quite abruptly he crossed the room, and planted himself down beside Mary. "Ah," sighed McEwan, apparently a propos of nothing, and with a trace of Scotch, "James, I'll now hae another whusky." Stefan's initial and astonishing success was not to be repeated that winter.
He did not know how intensely she longed for this, how she ached to see Stefan jab his finger at the baby as McEwan did, or watch it with the tender smile of Farraday. She tried a thousand simple wiles to bring to life the father in him. About to nurse the baby, she would call Stefan to see his eager search for the comfort of her breast, looking up in proud joy as the tiny mouth was satisfied.
Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. "Why don't you go into vaudeville, McEwan?" he frowned. "Solely out of consideration for the existing stars," McEwan sighed, putting down his cup and rising. "Well, chin music hath charms, but I must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to Elliston, Mary.
" And I have his," Mary's bell tones announced. " And I have his," trolled McEwan. "'There never was a better bargain driven," the notes came, confident and glad, from the golden figure with its clear-eyed, glowing face. They ended in a burst of almost defiant optimism. Applause was hearty and prolonged. McEwan slipped from his stool and sought a cigarette in the adjoining room.
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