The office to which she was bound was on the north side of Union Square. Crossing Broadway, she was held up half way over by the traffic. As she waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous fling upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that the dance was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than McEwan, sprucely tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but unmistakable for all that. She crossed the street and shook hands with him warmly, delighted to see any one connected with the romantic days of her voyage. McEwan's smile seemed to buttress his whole face with teeth, but to her amazement he greeted her without a trace of Scotch accent. “Well,” said he, pumping both her hands up and down in his enormous fist, “here's Mrs. Byrd! That's simply great. I've been wondering where I could locate you both. Ought to have nosed you out before now, but my job keeps me busy. I'm with a magazine house, you know--advertising manager.” “I didn't know,” answered Mary, whose head was whirling. “Ah,” he grinned at her, “you're surprised at my metamorphosis. I allow myself a month every year of my native heath, heather-mixture, and burr--I like to do the thing up brown. The rest of the time I'm a Gothamite, of necessity. Some time, when I've made my pile, I shall revert for keeps, and settle down into a kilt and a castle.” Much amused by this unsuspected histrionic gift, Mary walked on beside McEwan. He was full of interest in her affairs, and she soon confided to him the object of her expedition. “You're just the man to advise me, being on a paper,” she said, and added laughing, “I should have been terrified of you if I'd known that on the ship.” “Then I'm glad I kept it dark. You say your stuff is for children? Where were you going to?” She told him. “A woman's the boss of that shop. She's O.K. and so's her paper, but her prices aren't high.” He considered. “Better come to our shop. We run two monthlies and a weekly, one critical, one household, one entirely for children. The boss is a great pal of mine. Name of Farraday--an American. Come on!” And he wheeled her abruptly back the way they had come. She followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky sentences and crisp manner--the very antithesis of his former Scottish heaviness. “Mr. McEwan, what an actor you would have made!” She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with pretended caution, then stooped to her ear. “Hoots, lassie!” he whispered, with a solemn wink. “Stefan will never believe this!” she said, bubbling with laughter. At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, assumed its erstwhile weightiness.