“The Scottish Sherlock, eh?” he grinned. “Weel, it's as I tell ye—tak my word for't. Hae ye seen Mrs. Elliot lately?”
“No, Constance went up to their place in Vermont in June, you know. She came down purposely for Elliston's christening, the dear. She writes me she'll be back in a few days now, but says she's sick of New York, and would stay where she is if it weren't for suffrage.”
“But she would na',” said McEwan emphatically.
“No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it. I'm quoting verbatim,” Mary laughed.
McEwan nodded appreciatively. “She's a grand card.”
“She pretends to be flippant about husbands,” Mary went on, “but as a matter of fact she cares much more for hers than for her sons, or anything in the world, except perhaps the Cause.”
“That's as it should be,” the other nodded.
“I don't know.” There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. “I can't understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place.”
McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. “It's true, ye could not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some day,” he said, rising to go.
“Good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” she smiled, as she saw him out.