“Wallace McEwan, you are,” she said.
His finger continued poised. “Very well, we are 'on,' and our middle name is Efficiency, eh?”
“Yes,” Constance nodded doubtfully, “but—”
McEwan's hand slapped his knee. “Here's the scheme,” he went on rapidly. “Variable folk must have variety, either in place or people. If we don't want it to be people, we make it place, see? Is your country house closed yet?”
“No, I fancied I might go there to relax for a week after the fête.”
“A1 luck. You won't relax, you'll have a week's house-party, sleighing, skating, coasting, all that truck. The Byrds, Farraday (I'll persuade him he can leave the office), a couple of pretty skirts with no brains—me if you like. Get me?”
Constance gasped, her mind racing. “But Mary's baby?” she exclaimed, clutching at the central difficulty.
“You're the goods,” replied McEwan admiringly. “She couldn't shine as Queen of the Slide if she was tied to the offspring—granted. Now then.” He leant forward. “She's had to wean him—you didn't know that. Your dope is to talk up the house-party, tell her she owes it to herself to get a change, and make her leave the boy with a trained nurse. The Mary lady's no fool, she'll be on.”
Constance's eyes narrowed to slits, she fingered her beads, and nodded once, twice.
“More trouble,” she said, “but it's a go. Second week in January.”