With profuse thanks for her kindness in turning back, he continued his ramblings, and she gathered the impression that he was a dull, inconsequential talker, that he considered young couples “kittle cattle,” that artists were always absorbed in their work, that females had a habit of needless worrying, and that commuting in winter was distracting to a man's labors. 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. A little before Christmas McEwan called on Constance, and found her immersed in preparations for a Suffrage bazaar and fête. “I can't talk to any one,” she announced, receiving him in a chaos of boxes, banners, paper flowers, and stenographers, in the midst of which she appeared to be working with two voices and six hands. “Didn't the maid warn you off the premises?” “She did, but I sang 'Take back the lime that thou gavest' in such honey tones that she complied,” said Mac. “Just for that, you can give the fête a two-inch free ad in The Household Magazine,” Constance implacably replied. He grinned. “I raise the ante. Three inches, at the risk of losing my job, for five minutes alone with you.” “You lose your job!” scoffed Constance, leading the way into an empty room, and seating herself at attention, one eye on her watch. “Proceed--I am yours.” Mac sat opposite her, and shot out an emphatic forefinger. “The Berber girl's middle name is Mischief,” he began, plunging in medias res; “Byrd's is Variability; for the last five months the Mary lady's has been Mother. Am I right?” 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. If we don't want it to be people, we make it place, see? Is your country house closed yet?” “No, I fancied I might go there to relax for a week after the fête.” “A1 luck. You won't relax, you'll have a week's house-party, sleighing, skating, coasting, all that truck. The Byrds, Farraday (I'll persuade him he can leave the office), a couple of pretty skirts with no brains--me if you like. Get me?” Constance gasped, her mind racing. “But Mary's baby?” she exclaimed, clutching at the central difficulty.