“Poor Byrd,” Mac wrote, “so you say he'll not last many
years. Well, life would have broken him anyway, and it's
grand he's found himself before the end. He's not the lasting
kind, there's too much in him, and too little. She wins, after
all, James; life won't cheat her as it has him. She is here just
to be true to her instincts—to choose the finest mate for her
nest-building. She'll marry again, though the dear woman
doesn't know it, and would be horrified at the thought. But
she will, and it won't be either of us—we are too much her kind.
It will be some other brilliant egoist who will thrill her, grind
her heart, and give her wonderful children. She is an instrument.
As I think I once heard poor Byrd say, she is not merely
an expression of life, she is life.”
James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
“Come, son, we must be going,” murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her knitting.
“Rosamond is almost asleep,” smiled Mary.
“Don't rise, my dear,” said the little lady, “we'll find our own way.”
“Good-bye, Farraday,” said Stefan, “and thank you for everything.”
Mary held out her hand to them both, and they slipped quietly out.
“What a good day it has been, dearest. I hope you aren't too tired,” she said, as she rocked the drowsy baby.
“No, Beautiful, only a little.”
He dropped his burnt-out cigarette into the ash-tray at his side. The rocker creaked rhythmically.