“What's your address?” he shot at Mary. She produced it.
“I'll remember that,” McEwan nodded; “coming round to see you. There you are, James. We won't keep you. You have no time and I have less. Come on, Mrs. Byrd.” He made for the door, but Farraday lifted his hand.
“Too fast, Mac,” he smiled. “I haven't had a chance yet. A mere American can't keep pace with the dynamic energy you store in Scotland. Where does it come from? Do you do nothing but sleep there?”
“Much more than that. He practises the art of being a Scotchman,” laughed Mary.
“He has no need to practise. You should have heard him when he first came over,” said Farraday.
“Well, if you two are going to discuss me, I'll leave you at it; I'm not a highbrow editor; I'm the poor ad man—my time means money to me.” McEwan opened the door, and Mary rose to accompany him.
“Won't you sit down again, Mrs. Byrd? I'd like to ask you a few questions,” interposed Farraday, who had been turning the pages of Mary's manuscript. “Mac, you be off. I can't focus my mind in the presence of a human gyroscope.”
“I've got to beat it,” agreed the other, shaking hands warmly with Mary. “But don't you be taken in by him; he likes to pretend he's slow, but he's really as quick as a buzz-saw. See you soon,” and with a final wave of the hand he was gone.
“Now tell me a little about your work,” said Farraday, turning on Mary his kind but penetrating glance. She told him she had published three or four stories, and in what magazines.
“I only began to write fiction a year ago,” she explained. “Before that I'd done nothing except scribble a little verse at home.”