“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. Farraday turned on her a smile which seemed to make them allies in their joint comprehension of McEwan's advocacy. “She's got a story with her for you to see,” went on that enthusiast. “I've told her if it's good enough for our magazine it's two hundred dollars good enough. There's the script.” He took it from her, and flattened it out on Farraday's table. “Look it over and write her.” “What's your address?” he shot at Mary. She produced it. “I'll remember that,” McEwan nodded; “coming round to see you. There you are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on, Mrs. Byrd.” He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand. “Too fast, Mac,” he smiled. “I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?” “Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman,” laughed Mary. “He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came over,” said Farraday. “Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm not a highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man--my time means money to me.” McEwan opened the door, and Mary rose to accompany him. “Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few questions,” interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of Mary's manuscript. “Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the presence of a human gyroscope.” “I've got to beat it,” agreed the other, shaking hands warmly with Mary. “But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but he's really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon,” and with a final wave of the hand he was gone. “Now tell me a little about your work,” said Farraday, turning on Mary his kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or four stories, and in what magazines. “I only began to write fiction a year ago,” she explained. “Before that I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home.” “What kind of verse?” “Oh, just silly little children's rhymes.” “Have you sold any of them?” “No, I never tried.”