The week's interlude over, Mary's days reverted to their monotonous tenor. As November drew to a close, she began to think of Christmas, remembering how happy her last had been, and wondering if she could summon enough courage for an attempt to engage Stefan's interest in some kind of celebration. She now admitted to herself that she was actively worried about her relations with him. He was quite agreeable to her when in the house, but she felt this was only because she made no demands on him. Let her reach out ever so little for his love, and he instantly became vague or restless. Their intercourse was friendly, but he appeared absolutely indifferent to her as a woman; she might have been a well-liked sister. Under the grueling strain of self-repression Mary was growing nervous, and the baby began to feel the effects. His weekly gains were smaller, and he had his first symptoms of indigestion.

She redoubled the care of her diet, and lengthened her daily walks, but he became fretful, and at last, early in December, she found on weighing him that he had made no gain for a week. Terrified, she telephoned for Dr. Hillyard, and received her at the door with a white face. It was a Sunday morning, and McEwan had just dropped in with some chrysanthemums from the Farradays' greenhouse. Finding Mary disturbed he had not remained, and was leaving the house as the doctor drove up.

Dr. Hillyard's first words were reassuring. There was absolutely nothing to fear in a week's failure to gain, she explained. “It always happens at some stage or other, and many babies don't gain for weeks.”

Still, the outcome of her visit was that Mary, with an aching heart, added a daily bottle to Elliston's rÉgime. In a week the doctor came again, gave Mary a food tonic, and advised the introduction of a second bottle. Elliston immediately responded, palpably preferring his bottle feedings to the others. His fretfulness after these continued, he turned with increased eagerness to his bottle, and with tears of disappointment Mary yielded to his loudly voiced demands. By Christmas time he was weaned. His mother felt she could never forgive herself for failing him so soon, and a tinge of real resentment colored for the first time her attitude toward Stefan, whom she knew to be the indirect cause of her failure.

The somewhat abrupt deterioration of Mary's magnificent nervous system would have been unaccountable to Dr. Hillyard had it not been for a chance encounter with McEwan after her first visit. The Scotchman had hailed her in the lane, asking for a lift to a house beyond the village, where he had some small errand. During a flow of discursive remarks he elicited from the doctor, without her knowledge, her opinion that Mary was nervously run down, after which he rambled at some length about the value of art, allowing the doctor to pass his destination by a mile or more.

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.

“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.”

He grasped her hand. “Votes for Women,” he beamed.

She looked at her watch. “Five minutes exactly. Three inches, Mr. McEwan!”

“Three inches!” he called from the door.