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Updated: May 3, 2025
She turned to him in simple surprise. "Why, of course; my husband chose it for me." "Marvelous!" said Stefan, who felt that one week of those brown hangings would drive him to suicide. "Nix on the home-sweet-home business for yours, eh, Byrd?" threw in McEwan with his glint of a twinkle. "Boy," interposed their little hostess, "why will thee always use such shocking slang?
McEwan, whose face is the shape of a mutton chop. He is sure to be there, for he spends half his time with James. Do you like him?" "Yes, I do," said Mary; "increasingly." "He's one of the best of souls. Have you heard his story?" "No, has he one?" "Indeed, yes," replied Constance. "The poor creature, who, by the way, adores you, is a victim of Quixotism.
He had almost completed an impression of her head against the sky, with a flying veil lifting above it, when a shadow fell across the canvas, and the voice of McEwan blared out a pleased greeting. "Weel, here ye are!" exclaimed that mountain of tweed, lowering himself onto a huge iron cleat between which and the bulwarks the two were sitting cross-legged. "I was speerin' where ye'd both be."
McEwan was the last to leave, at nearly midnight, and pleading fatigue, Mary kissed Stefan good night at the door of her room. She dared not linger with him lest the stifled pain at her heart should clamor for expression too urgently to be denied. But by this time he himself began to feel the impending separation.
The revolutionary group on the other hand would have broken through her pleasant aloofness with the force and twice the speed of a McEwan, had Stefan not, with them, adopted the role of snarling watchdog. One of Mary's first after dinner friendships was made at the hotel with a certain Mrs. Elliott, who turned out to be the President of the local Suffrage Club.
All your admirers are coming, that gorgeous Gunther, my beloved James, and Wallace McEwan. I baited my hooks with you, so you simply can't disappoint me!" she concluded triumphantly. Stefan pricked up his ears. Here was Mary in a new guise; he had not thought of her for some time as having "admirers."
Constance's bright eyes looked squarely at him. "Wallace McEwan, you are," she said. His finger continued poised. "Very well, we are 'on, and our middle name is Efficiency, eh?" "Yes," Constance nodded doubtfully, "but " McEwan's hand slapped his knee. "Here's the scheme," he went on rapidly. "Variable folk must have variety, either in place or people.
The little lady slipped away, and Mary, feeling unexpected pleasure in the quiet room and the soft bed, closed her eyes gratefully. At luncheon, or rather dinner, for it was obvious that Mrs. Farraday kept to the old custom of Sunday meals, a silent, shock-headed boy of about ten appeared, whom McEwan with touching pride introduced as his son.
Mary covered her eyes with her hands. The Sparrow sat petrified. The little Elliston, terrified by their strange aspects, burst into loud wails. "There, darling; there, mother's boy," crooned Mary soothingly, pressing her wet cheek to his. "Little bairns like that, Mary," McEwan repeated brokenly. Mary gathered the child close into her arms. They sat in stunned horror.
Was she deceived, or did there lurk a teasing gleam in those blue eyes? Had McEwan used the outrageous phrase "paint-slinging" with malice aforethought? She could not be sure. But if his object was to get a rise from Stefan, he was only partly successful.
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