With profuse thanks for her kindness in turning back, he continued his ramblings, and she gathered the impression that he was a dull, inconsequential talker, that he considered young couples “kittle cattle,” that artists were always absorbed in their work, that females had a habit of needless worrying, and that commuting in winter was distracting to a man's labors. She only half listened to him, and dropped him with relief, wondering if he was an anti-suffragist. Some memory of his remarks must, however, have remained with her, for after her next visit to Mary she found herself thinking that Mr. McEwan was probably neither an anti-suffragist, nor dull.
A little before Christmas McEwan called on Constance, and found her immersed in preparations for a Suffrage bazaar and fête.
“I can't talk to any one,” she announced, receiving him in a chaos of boxes, banners, paper flowers, and stenographers, in the midst of which she appeared to be working with two voices and six hands. “Didn't the maid warn you off the premises?”
“She did, but I sang 'Take back the lime that thou gavest' in such honey tones that she complied,” said Mac.
“Just for that, you can give the fête a two-inch free ad in The Household Magazine,” Constance implacably replied.
He grinned. “I raise the ante. Three inches, at the risk of losing my job, for five minutes alone with you.”
“You lose your job!” scoffed Constance, leading the way into an empty room, and seating herself at attention, one eye on her watch. “Proceed—I am yours.”
Mac sat opposite her, and shot out an emphatic forefinger.
“The Berber girl's middle name is Mischief,” he began, plunging in medias res; “Byrd's is Variability; for the last five months the Mary lady's has been Mother. Am I right?”
Constance's bright eyes looked squarely at him.