He looked, she thought, something under forty years
old.
"I am fortunate. You find me in a breathing spell," he was saying.
"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."
"Nor a more charming, I should think," added Mary, looking about at the
restful tones of the room, with its landscapes, its beautifully chosen
old furniture, and its flowers.
"The owner thanks you," he acknowledged, with his kindly smile.
"Business, business," interjected McEwan, who, Mary was amused to
observe, approximated much more to the popular idea of an American than
did his friend. "I've brought you a find, Farraday. This lady writes for
children--she's printed stuff in England. I haven't read it, but I know
it's good because I've seen her telling stories to the kids by the hour
aboard ship, and you couldn't budge them. You can see," he waved his hand
at her, "that her copy would be out of the ordinary run."
This absurdity would have embarrassed Mary but that Mr.
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