“Well,” Constance went on, “you must be particularly 'twee' then, to James' mother, who is a Quaker from Philadelphia, and an American gentlewoman of the old school. His father was a New Englander, and took his pleasures sadly, as I tell James he does; but his mother is as warm as a dear little toast, and as pleasant--well--as the dinner bell.” “What culinary similes, Constance!” “My dear, from sheep to mutton is only a step, and I'm so hungry I can think only in terms of a menu. And that,” she prattled on, “reminds me of Mr. McEwan, whose face is the shape of a mutton chop. He is sure to be there, for he spends half his time with James. Do you like him?” “Yes, I do,” said Mary; “increasingly.” “He's one of the best of souls. Have you heard his story?” “No, has he one?” “Indeed, yes,” replied Constance. “The poor creature, who, by the way, adores you, is a victim of Quixotism. When he first came to New York he married a young girl who lived in his boarding-house and was in trouble by another man. Mac found her trying to commit suicide, and, as the other man had disappeared, married her to keep her from it. She was pretty, I believe, and I think he was fond of her because of her terrible helplessness. The first baby died, luckily, but when his own was born a year or two later the poor girl was desperately ill, and lost most of what little mind she possessed. She developed two manias--the common spendthrift one, and the conviction that he was trying to divorce her. That was ten years ago. He has to keep her at sanitariums with a companion to check her extravagance, and he pays her weekly visits to reassure her as to the divorce. She costs him nearly all he makes, in doctors' bills and so forth--he never spends a penny on himself, except for a cheap trip to Scotland once a year. Yet, with it all, he is one of the most cheerful souls alive.” “Poor fellow!” said Mary. “What about the child?” “He's alive, but she takes very little notice of him. He spends most of his time with Mrs. Farraday, who is a saint. James, poor man, adores children, and is glad to have him.” “Why hasn't Mr. Farraday married, I wonder?” Mary murmured under the covering purr of the car. “Oh, what a waste,” groaned Constance. “An ideal husband thrown away! Nobody knows, my dear. I think he was hit very hard years ago, and never got over it. He won't say, but I tell him if I weren't ten years older, and Theodore in evidence, I should marry him myself out of hand.” “I like him tremendously, but I don't think I should ever have felt attracted in that way,” said Mary, who was much too natural a woman not to be interested in matrimonial speculations. “That's because you are two of a kind, simple and serious,” nodded Constance. “I could have adored him.”