The day after the arrival of Miss Mason's letter McEwan had dropped in upon Constance in the evening, when he knew she would be resting after her strenuous day's work at headquarters. By way of a compliment on her gown he led the conversation round to Felicity Berber, and elicited the information that she was abroad. “In Paris, perhaps?” he suggested. “Now you mention it, I think they did say Paris when I was last in the shop.” “Byrd is in Paris, you know,” said McEwan, meeting her eyes. “Ah!” said Constance, and she stared at him, her lids narrowing. “I hadn't thought of that possibility.” She fingered her jade beads. “I wonder if you ever write her?” he asked. “I never write any one, my dear man, and, besides, what could I say?” “Well,” said he, “I had a hunch you might need a new rig for the summer Votes campaign, or something. I thought maybe you'd want the very latest Berber styles, and would ask her to send a tip over. Then I thought you'd string her the local gossip, how Mrs. Byrd's baby will be born in October, and you don't think her looking as fit as she might. You want a cute rattle for it from Paris, or something. Get the idea?” “You think she doesn't know?” “I think the kid's about as harmless as a short-circuited wire, but I think she's a sport at bottom. My dope is, _if_ there's anything to this proposition, then she doesn't know.” He rose to go. “Wallace, you are certainly a bright boy,” said Constance, holding out her hand. “The missive shall be despatched.” “Moreover,” said Mac, turning at the door, “Mary's worried--a little cheering up won't hurt her any.” “I'll come out,” said Constance'. “What a shame it is--I'm so fond of them both.” “Yes, it's a mean world--but we have to keep right on smiling. Good night,” said he. “Good night,” called Constance. “You dear, good soul,” she added to herself. XIII Adolph was practising some new Futurist music of Ravel's. Its dissonances fatigued and irritated him, but he was lured by its horrible fascination, and grated away with an enraged persistence. Paris was hot, the attic hotter, for it was July. Adolph wondered as he played how long it would be before he could get away to the sea. He was out of love with the city, and thought longingly of a possible trip to Sweden. His reflections were interrupted by Stefan, who pushed the door open listlessly, and instantly implored him to stop making a din. “What awful stuff--it's like the Cubist horrors,” said he, petulantly. “Yes, my friend, yet I play the one, and you go to see the other,” said Adolph, laying down his fiddle and mopping his head and hands. “Not I,” contradicted Stefan, wandering over to his easel. On it was an unfinished sketch of Felicity dancing--several other impressions of her stood about the room.