“Don't go yet, Mrs. Byrd; allow me the luxury of postponing other business for a moment. We do not meet a new contributor and a new citizen every day.” He leant back with an air of complete leisure, turning to her his kindly, open smile. She felt wonderfully at her ease, as though this man and she were old acquaintances. He asked more about her work and that of her husband.
“We like to have some personal knowledge of our authors; it helps us in criticism and suggestion,” he explained.
Mary described Stefan's success in Paris, and mentioned his sketches of downtown New York. Farraday looked interested.
“I should like to see those,” he said. “We have an illustrated review in which we sometimes use such things. If you are bringing me your verses, your husband might care to come too, and show me the drawings.”
Again the insistent telephone purred, and this time he let Mary go, shaking her hand and holding the door for her.
“Bring the verses whenever you like, Mrs. Byrd,” was his farewell.
When she had gone, James Farraday returned to his desk, lit a cigar, and smoked absently for a few moments, staring out of the window. Then he pulled his chair forward, and unhooked the receiver.