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Updated: May 3, 2025
I prefer to consider that you fetched it from Olympus." And Mary, whose practical conscience had given her sharp twinges over her extravagance, was glad to let it rest at that. During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card of James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to them both from McEwan.
There was a general movement in that direction, and the drawing room was almost empty as McEwan, purpose in his eye, strode across it to Constance. He spoke to her in an undertone. "Sing? Does she? I had no idea! She never tells one such things," his hostess replied. "Do you think she would? But she has no music. You could play for her? How splendid, Mr. McEwan. How perfectly lovely of you.
This made him unintelligible to the average man, unforgivable to the fanatic and a god to the blunderer. On one occasion my husband and I went to a lunch, given by old Mr. McEwan, to meet Mr. Frank Harris. I might have said what my sister Laura did, when asked if she had enjoyed herself at a similar meal.
"I don't understand you, Stefan," she said. "Mr. McEwan was kindness itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all." She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it. "Very well, goddess, don't flash your lightnings at me."
McEwan was an energetic, capable, intelligent woman, tolerant of her husband's failings, ambitious for her children. She took a large house, furnished it on the installment plan, and filled it with boarders. The boarders gave the family an income larger than they had ever possessed before, and McEwan's contributions fell off. He became an unpaying guest himself.
Chancing to look back from the hall, Mary saw that McEwan had seated himself in the grandmother's chair, and was holding the heavy shy Jamie at his knee, one arm thrown round him. The boy's eyes were fixed in dumb devotion on his father's face. "The two poor lonely things," she thought. The little kitchen was spotless, tiled shoulder-high, and painted blue above.
Farraday appear in the pony carriage, but not a day passed without McEwan, Jamie, the Havens, or other neighbors dropping in for a chat, or planning a walk, a luncheon, or a sail. Constance, too, immersed in work though she was, ran out several times in her car and spent the night.
The baby spent much of its time in the garden, and every Sunday Stefan would find McEwan planted on the lawn, prodding the infant with a huge forefinger, and exploding into fatuous mirth whenever he deluded himself into believing he had made it smile. Of late Stefan had begun to tolerate this man, but after three such exhibitions decided to blacklist him permanently as an insufferable idiot.
A ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot partition; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum; all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering over the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the operator's eyes from their multiple distractions.
Byrd, you're the luckiest man on earth I hope you deserve it all but then of course no man could. Mary, here are two friends of yours Mr. Byrd, come and be presented to Felicity." Farraday and McEwan had advanced toward them and immediately formed the nucleus of a group which gathered about Mary.
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