“Solely out of consideration for the existing stars,” McEwan sighed, putting down his cup and rising. “Well, chin music hath charms, but I must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty needs stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the latest masterpiece. So long,” and he grinned himself out before Stefan's rising irritation had a chance to explode.
“Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?” he demanded, almost before the front door was shut.
“Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him. I admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you.”
“Teasing me!” Stefan scoffed; “it's like an elephant teasing a fly. He obliterates me.”
“Well, don't be an old crosspatch,” she smiled, determined now they were alone again to make the most of him.
“You are a good sort, Mary,” he said, smiling in reply; “it's restful to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?” He stretched luxuriously on the sofa.
She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa, the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. “He must be very tired, poor boy,” she thought.
Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room, and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time, and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet.
As they went up to bed Mary turned wistfully to him.
“Wouldn't you like to look at Elliston? You haven't seen him for a long time.”