“Stefan,” she asked, “what did you think of his advice to win the public

first by smiles?”

“Tennysonian!” pronounced Stefan, using what she knew to be his final

adjective of condemnation.

“A little Victorian, perhaps,” she admitted, smiling at this succinct

repudiation. “Nevertheless, I'm inclined to think he was right. There is

a sort of Pan-inspired terror in your work, you know.”

He appeared struck. “Mary, I believe you've hit it!” he exclaimed,

suddenly standing still. “I've never thought of it like that before--the

thing that makes my work unique, I mean. Like the music of Pan, it's

outside humanity, because I am.”

“Don't say that, dear,” she interrupted, shocked.

“Yes, I am. I hate my kind--all except a handful. I love beauty. It is

not my fault that humanity is ugly.”

Mary was deeply disturbed. Led on by a chance phrase of hers, he was

actually boasting of just that lack which was becoming her secret fear

for him. She touched his arm, pleadingly.

“Stefan, don't speak like that; it hurts me dreadfully. It is awful for

any one to build up a barrier between himself and the world. It means

much unhappiness, both for himself and others.”

He laughed affectionately at her. “Why, sweet, what do we care? I love

you enough to make the balance true. You are on my side of the barrier,

shutting me in with beauty.”

“Is that your only reason for loving me?” she asked, still distressed.

“I love you because you have a beautiful body and a beautiful

mind--because you are like a winged goddess of inspiration. Could there

be a more perfect reason?”

Mary was silent. Again the burden of his ideal oppressed her. There was

no comfort in it. It might be above humanity, she felt, but it was not

of it. Again her mind returned to the pictures and Farraday's criticism.

“Sinister!” So he would have summed up all the others, except the Danaë.

To that at least the word could not apply. Her heart lifted at the

realization of how truly she had helped Stefan. In his tribute to

her there was only beauty. She knew now that her gift must be without

reservation.

Home again, she stood long before the picture, searching its strange

face. Was she wrong, or did there linger even here the sinister,

half-human note?

“Stefan,” she said, calling him to her, “I was wrong to ask you not to

make the face like me. It was stupid--'Tennysonian,' I'm afraid.” She

smiled bravely. “It _is_ me--your ideal of me, at least--and I want you

to make the face, too, express me as I seem to you.” She leant against

him. “Then I want you to exhibit it. I want you to be known first by

our gift to each other, this--which is our love's triumph.” She was

trembling; her face quivered--he had never seen her so moved. She fired

him.

“How glorious of you, darling!” he exclaimed, “and oh, how beautiful you

look! You have never been so wonderful. If I could paint that rapt face!

Quick, I believe I can get it. Stand there, on the throne.” He seized

his pallette and brushes and worked furiously while Mary stood, still

flaming with her renunciation. In a few minutes it was done. He ran

to her and covered her face with kisses. “Come and look!” he cried

exultingly, holding her before the canvas.

The strange face with its too-wide eyes and exotic mouth was gone.

Instead, she saw her own purely cut features, but fired by such exultant

adoration as lifted them to the likeness of a deity. The picture now was

incredibly pure and passionate--the very flaming essence of love. Tears

started to her eyes and dropped unheeded. She turned to him worshiping.

“Beloved,” she cried, “you are great, great. I adore you,” and she

kissed him passionately.

He had painted love's apotheosis, and his genius had raised her love to

its level. At that moment Mary's actually was the soul of flame he had

depicted it.

That day, illumined by the inspiration each had given each, was destined

to mark a turning point in their common life. The next morning the

understanding which Mary had for long instinctively feared, and against

which she had raised a barrier of silence, came at last.

She was standing for some final work on the Danaë, but she had awakened

feeling rather unwell, and her pose was listless. Stefan noticed it, and

she braced herself by an effort, only to droop again. To his surprise,

she had to ask for her rest much sooner than usual; he had hitherto

found her tireless. But hardly had she again taken the pose than she

felt herself turning giddy. She tottered, and sat down limply on the

throne. He ran to her, all concern.

“Why, darling, what's the matter, aren't you well?” She shook her head.

“What can be wrong?” She looked at him speechless.

“What is it, dearest, has anything upset you?” he went on with--it

seemed to her--incredible blindness.

“I can't stand in that pose any longer, Stefan; this must be the last

time,” she said at length, slowly.

He looked at her as she sat, pale-faced, drooping on the edge of the

throne. Suddenly, in a flash, realization came to him. He strode across

the room, looked again, and came back to her.

“Why, Mary, are you going to have a baby?” he asked, quite baldly, with

a surprised and almost rueful expression.

Mary flushed crimson, tears of emotion in her eyes. “Oh, Stefan, yes.

I've known it for weeks; haven't you guessed?” Her arms reached to him

blindly.

He stood rooted for a minute, looking as dumfounded as if an earthquake

had rolled under him. Then with a quick turn he picked up her wrap,

folded it round her, and took her into his arms. But it was a moment

too late. He had hesitated, had not been there at the instant of her

greatest need. Her midnight fears were fulfilled, just as her instinct

had foretold. He was not glad. There in his arms her heart turned cold.

He soon rallied; kissed her, comforted her, told her what a fool he had

been; but all he said only confirmed her knowledge. “He is not glad. He

is not glad,” her heart beat out over and over, as he talked.

“Why did you not tell me sooner, darling? Why did you let me tire you

like this?” he asked.

Impossible to reply. “Why didn't you know?” her heart cried out, and, “I

wasn't tired until to-day,” her lips answered.

“But why didn't you tell me?” he urged. “I never even guessed. It was

idiotic of me, but I was so absorbed in our love and my work that this

never came to my mind.”

“But at first, Stefan?” she questioned, probing for the answer she

already knew, but still clinging to the hope of being wrong. “I never

talked about it because you didn't seem to care. But in the beginning,

when you proposed to me--the day we were married--at Shadeham--did you

never think of it then?” Her tone craved reassurance.

“Why, no,” he half laughed. “You'll think me childish, but I never did.

I suppose I vaguely faced the possibility, but I put it from me. We had

each other and our love--that seemed enough.”

She raised her head and gazed at him in wide-eyed pain. “But, Stefan,

what's marriage _for?_” she exclaimed.

He puckered his brows, puzzled. “Why, my dear, it's for

love--companionship--inspiration. Nothing more so far as I am

concerned.” They stared nakedly at each other. For the first time the

veils were stripped away. They had felt themselves one, and behold!

here was a barrier, impenetrable as marble, dividing each from the

comprehension of the other. To Stefan it was inconceivable that a

marriage should be based on anything but mutual desire. To Mary the

thought of marriage apart from children was an impossibility. They had

come to their first spiritual deadlock.

VIII

Love, feeling its fusion threatened, ever makes a supreme effort for

reunity. In the days that followed, Stefan enthusiastically sought to

rebuild his image of Mary round the central fact of her maternity. He

became inspired with the idea of painting her as a Madonna, and recalled

all the famous artists of the past who had so glorified their hearts'

mistresses.

“You are named for the greatest of all mothers, dearest, and my picture

shall be worthy of the name,” he would cry. Or he would call her

Aphrodite, the mother of Love. “How beautiful our son will be--another

Eros,” he exclaimed.

Mary rejoiced in his new enthusiasm, and persuaded herself that

his indifference to children was merely the result of his lonely

bachelorhood, and would disappear forever at the sight of his own child.

Now that her great secret was shared she became happier, and openly

commenced those preparations which she had long been cherishing in

thought. Miss Mason was sent for, and the great news confided to her.

They undertook several shopping expeditions, as a result of which Mary

would sit with a pile of sewing on her knee while Stefan worked to

complete his picture. Miss Mason took to dropping in occasionally with a

pattern or some trifle of wool or silk. Mary was always glad to see

her, and even Stefan found himself laughing sometimes at her shrewd

New England wit. For the most part, however, he ignored her, while he

painted away in silence behind the great canvas.

Mary had received twelve dollars for each of her verses--ninety-six

dollars in all. Before Christmas Stefan sold his pastoral of the dancing

faun for one hundred and twenty-five, and Mary felt that financially

they were in smooth water, and ventured to discuss the possibility of

larger quarters. For these they were both eager, having begun to feel

the confinement of their single room; but Mary urged that they postpone

moving until spring.

“We are warm and snug here for the winter, and by spring we shall have

saved something substantial, and really be able to spread out,” she

argued.

“Very well, wise one, we will hold in our wings a little longer,” he

agreed, “but when we do fly, it must be high.” His brush soared in

illustration.

She had discussed with him the matter of the illustrations for her

verses as soon as she received her cheque from Farraday. They had

agreed that it would be a pity for him to take time for them from his

masterpiece.

“Besides, sweetheart,” he had said, “I honestly think Ledward will do

them better. His stuff is very graceful, without being sentimental,

and he understands children, which I'm afraid I don't.” He shrugged

regretfully. “Didn't you paint that adorable lost baby?” she reminded

him. “I've always grieved that we had to sell it.”

“I'll buy it back for you, or paint you another better one,” he offered

promptly.

So the verses went to Ledward, and the first three appeared in the

Christmas number of The Child at Home, illustrated--as even Stefan had

to admit--with great beauty.

Mary would have given infinitely much for his collaboration, but she had

not urged it, feeling he was right in his refusal.

As Christmas approached they began to make acquaintances among the

polyglot population of the neighborhood. Their old hotel, the culinary

aristocrat of the district, possessed a cafe in which, with true French

hospitality, patrons were permitted to occupy tables indefinitely on

the strength of the slenderest orders. Here for the sake of the

French atmosphere Stefan would have dined nightly had Mary's frugality

permitted. As it was, they began to eat there two or three nights a

week, and dropped in after dinner on many other nights. They would

sit at a bare round table smoking their cigarettes, Mary with a cup of

coffee, Stefan with the liqueur he could never induce her to share, and

watching the groups that dotted the other tables. Or they would linger

at the cheapest of their restaurants and listen to the conversation of

the young people, aggressively revolutionary, who formed its clientele.

These last were always noisy, and assumed as a pose manners even worse

than those they naturally possessed. Every one talked to every one else,

regardless of introductions, and Stefan had to summon his most crushing

manner to prevent Mary from being monopolized by various very youthful

and visionary men who openly admired her. He was inclined to abandon

the place, but Mary was amused by it for a time, bohemianism being a

completely unknown quantity to her.

“Don't think this is the real thing,” he explained; “I've had seven

years of that in Paris. This is merely a very crass imitation.”

“Imitation or not, it's most delightfully absurd and amusing,” said

she, watching the group nearest her. This consisted of a very short and

rotund man with hair a la Paderewski and a frilled evening shirt, a thin

man of incredible stature and lank black locks, and a pretty young

girl in a tunic, a tam o' shanter, enormous green hairpins, and tiny

patent-leather shoes decorated with three inch heels. To her the lank

man, who wore a red velvet shirt and a khaki-colored suit reminiscent of

Mr. Bernard Shaw, was explaining the difference between syndicalism and

trade-unionism in the same conversational tone which men in Lindum had

used in describing to Mary the varying excellences of the two local

hunts. “I.W.W.” and “A.F. of L.” fell from his lips as “M.F.H.”

and “J.P.” used to from theirs. The contrast between the two worlds

entertained her not a little. She thought all these young people looked

clever, though singularly vulgar, and that her old friends would have

appeared by comparison refreshingly clean and cultivated, but quite

stupid.

“Why, Stefan, are dull, correct people always so clean, and clever and

original ones usually so unwashed?” she wondered.

“Oh, the unwashed stage is like the measles,” he replied; “you are bound

to catch it in early life.”

“I suppose that's true. I know even at Oxford the Freshmen go through

an utterly ragged and disreputable phase, in which they like to pretend

they have no laundry bill.”

“Yes, it advertises their emancipation. I went through it in Paris, but

mine was a light case.”

“And brief, I should think,” smiled Mary, to whom Stefan's feline

perfection of neatness was one of his charms.

At the hotel, on the other hand, the groups, though equally individual,

lacked this harum-scarum quality, and, if occasionally noisy, were clean

and orderly.

“Is it because they can afford to dress better?” Mary asked on their

next evening there, noting the contrast.

“No,” said Stefan. “That velvet shirt cost as much probably as half a

dozen cotton ones. These people have more, certainly, or they wouldn't

be here--but the real reason is that they are a little older. The other

crowd is raw with youth. These have begun to find themselves; they don't

need to advertise their opinions on their persons.” He was looking about

him with quite a friendly eye.

“You don't seem to hate humanity this evening, Stefan,” Mary commented.

“No,” he grinned. “I confess these people are less objectionable than

most.” He spoke in rapid French to the waiter, ordering another drink.

“And the language,” he continued. “If you knew what it means to me to

hear French!”

Mary nodded rather ruefully. Her French was of the British school-girl

variety, grammatically precise, but with a hopeless, insular accent.

After a few attempts Stefan had ceased trying to speak it with her.

“Darling,” he had begged, “don't let us--it is the only ugly sound you

make.”

One by one they came to know the habitués of these places. In the

restaurant Stefan was detested, but tolerated for the sake of his wife.

“Beauty and the Beast” they were dubbed. But in the hotel café he made

himself more agreeable, and was liked for his charming appearance, his

fluent French, and his quick mentality. The “Villagers,” as these people

called themselves, owing to their proximity to New York's old Greenwich

Village, admired Mary with ardor, and liked her, but for a time were

baffled by her innate English reserve. Mentally they stood round her

like a litter of yearling pups about a stranger, sniffing and wagging

friendly but uncertain tails, doubtful whether to advance with

affectionate fawnings or to withdraw to safety. This was particularly

true of the men--the women, finding Mary a stanch Feminist, and feeling

for her the sympathy a bride always commands from her sex, took to her

at once. The revolutionary group on the other hand would have broken

through her pleasant aloofness with the force--and twice the speed--of

a McEwan, had Stefan not, with them, adopted the role of snarling

watchdog.

One of Mary's first after dinner friendships was made at the hotel with

a certain Mrs. Elliott, who turned out to be the President of the local

Suffrage Club. Scenting a new recruit, this lady early engaged the Byrds

in conversation and, finding Mary a believer, at once enveloped her in

the camaraderie which has been this cause's gift to women all the world

over. They exchanged calls, and soon became firm friends.

Mrs. Elliot was an attractive woman in middle life, of slim, graceful

figure and vivacious manner. She had one son out in the world, and one

in college, and lived in a charming house just off the Avenue, with

an adored but generally invisible husband, who was engaged in business

downtown. As a girl Constance Elliot had been on the stage, and had

played smaller Shakespearean parts in the old Daly Company, but, bowing

to the code of her generation, had abandoned her profession at marriage.

Now, in middle life, too old to take up her calling again with any hope

of success, yet with her mental activity unimpaired, she found in the

Suffrage movement her one serious vocation.

“I am nearly fifty, Mrs. Byrd,” she said to Mary, “and have twenty good

years before me. I like my friends, and am interested in philanthropy,

but I am not a Jack-of-all-trades by temperament. I need work--a real

job such as I had when the boys were little, or when I was a girl. We

are all working hard enough to win the vote, but what we shall fill the

hole in our time with when we have it, I don't know. It will be easy for

the younger ones--but I suppose women like myself will simply have to

pay the price of having been born of our generation. Some will find

solace as grandmothers--I hope I shall. But my elder son, who married a

pretty society girl, is childless, and my younger such a light-hearted

young rascal that I doubt if he marries for years to come.”

Mary was much interested in this problem, which seemed more salient here

than in her own class in England, in which social life was a vocation

for both sexes.

At Mrs. Elliot's house she met many of the neighborhood's more

conventional women, and began to have a great liking for these gently

bred but broad-minded and democratic Americans. She also met a mixed

collection of artists, actresses, writers, reformers and followers of

various “isms”; for as president of a suffrage club it was Mrs. Elliot's

policy to make her drawing rooms a center for the whole neighborhood.

She was a charming hostess, combining discrimination with breadth of

view; her Fridays were rallying days for the followers of many more

cults than she would ever embrace, but for none toward which she could

not feel tolerance.

At first Stefan, who, man-like, professed contempt for social functions,

refused to accompany Mary to these at-homes. But after Mrs. Elliot's

visit to the studio he conceived a great liking for her, and to Mary's

delight volunteered to accompany her on the following Friday. Few

misanthropes are proof against an atmosphere of adulation, and in this

Mrs. Elliot enveloped Stefan from the moment of first seeing his Danaë.

She introduced him as a genius--America's coming great painter, and

he frankly enjoyed the novel sensation of being lionized by a group of

clever and attractive women.

Mrs. Elliot affected house gowns of unusual texture and design,

which flowed in adroitly veiling lines about her too slim form. These

immediately attracted the attention of Stefan, who coveted something

equally original for Mary. He remarked on them to his hostess on his

second visit.

“Yes,” she said, “I love them. I am eclipsed by fashionable clothing.

Felicity Berber designs all my things. She's ruinous,” with a sigh,

“but I have to have her. I am a fool at dressing myself, but I have

intelligence enough to know it,” she added, laughing.

“Felicity Berber,” questioned Stefan. “Is that a creature with Mongolian

eyes and an O-shaped mouth?”

“What a good description! Yes--have you met her?”

“I haven't, but you will arrange it, won't you?” he asked cajolingly.

“I saw a drawing of her--she's tremendously paintable. Do tell me about

her. Wait a minute. I'll get my wife!”

He jumped up, pounced on Mary, who was in a group by the tea-table, and

bore her off regardless of her interrupted conversation.

“Mary,” he explained, all excitement, “you remember that picture at the

magazine office? Yes, you do, a girl with slanting black eyes--Felicity

Berber. Well, she isn't an actress after all. Sit down here. Mrs. Elliot

is going to tell us about her.” Mary complied, sharing their hostess'

sofa, while Stefan wrapped himself round a stool. “Now begin at the

beginning,” he demanded, beaming; “I'm thrilled about her.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Elliot, dropping a string of jade beads through her

fingers, “so are most people. She's unique in her way. She came here

from the Pacific coast, I believe, quite unknown, and trailing an

impossible husband. That was five years ago--she couldn't have been more

than twenty-three. She danced in the Duncan manner, but was too lazy to

keep it up. Then she went into the movies, and her face became the

rage; it was on all the picture postcards. She got royalties on every

photograph sold, and made quite a lot of money, I believe. But she hates

active work, and soon gave the movies up. About that time the appalling

husband disappeared. I don't know if she divorced him or not, but he

ceased to be, as it were. His name was Noaks.” She paused, “Does this

bore you?” she asked Mary.

“On the contrary,” smiled she, “it's most amusing--like the penny

novelettes they sell in England.”

“Olympian superiority!” teased Stefan. “Please go on, Mrs. Elliot. Did

she attach another husband?”

“No, she says she hates the bother of them,” laughed their hostess.

“Men are always falling in love with her, but-openly at least-she seems

uninterested in them.”

“Hasn't found the right one, I suppose,” Stefan interjected.

“Perhaps that's it. At any rate her young men are always confiding their

woes to me. My status as a potential grandmother makes me a suitable

repository for such secrets.”

“Ridiculous,” Stefan commented.

“But true, alas!” she laughed. “Well, Felicity had always designed the

gowns for her dancing and acting, and after the elimination of Mr.

Noaks she set up a dressmaking establishment for artistic and individual

gowns. She opened it with a thé dansant, at which she discoursed on

the art of dress. Her showroom is like a sublimated hotel lobby--tea is

served there for visitors every afternoon. Her prices are high, and she

has made a huge success. She's wonderfully clever, directs everything

herself. Felicity detests exertion, but she has the art of making others

work for her.”

“That sounds as if she would get fat,” said Stefan, with a shudder.

“Doesn't it?” agreed Mrs. Elliot. “But she's as slim as a panther, and

intensely alive nervously, for all her physical laziness.”

“Do you like her?” Mary asked.

“Yes, I really do, though she's terribly rude, and I tell her I'm

convinced she's a dangerous person. She gives me a feeling that

gunpowder is secreted somewhere in the room with her. I will get her

here to meet you both--you would be interested. She's never free in the

afternoon; we'll make it an evening.” With a confirming nod, Mrs. Elliot

rose to greet some newcomers.

“Mary,” Stefan whispered, “we'll go and order you a dress from this

person. Wouldn't that be fun?”

“How sweet of you, dearest, but we can't afford it,” replied Mary,

surreptitiously patting his hand.

“Nonsense, of course we can. Aren't we going to be rich?” scoffed he.

“Look who's coming!” exclaimed Mary suddenly.

Farraday was shaking hands with their hostess, his tall frame looking

more than ever distinguished in its correct cutaway. Almost instantly he

caught sight of Mary and crossed the room to her with an expression of

keen pleasure.

“How delightful,” he greeted them both. “So you have found the

presiding genius of the district! Why did I not have the inspiration

of introducing you myself?” He turned to Mrs. Elliot, who had rejoined

them. “Two more lions for you, eh, Constance?” he said, with a twinkle

which betokened old friendship.

“Yes, indeed,” she smiled, “they have no rivals for my Art and Beauty

cages.”

“And what about the literary circus? I suppose you have been making Mrs.

Byrd roar overtime?”

Their hostess looked puzzled.

“Don't tell me that you are in ignorance of her status as the Household

Company's latest find?” he ejaculated in mock dismay.

Mrs. Elliot turned reproachful eyes on Mary. “She never told me, the

unfriendly woman!”

“Just retribution, Constance, for poring over your propagandist sheets

instead of reading our wholesome literature,” Farraday retorted. “Had

you done your duty by the Household magazines you would have needed no

telling.”

“A hit, a palpable hit,” she answered, laughing. “Which reminds me that

I want another article from you, James, for our Woman Citizen.”

“Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, “behold in me a driven slave. Won't you come

to my rescue and write something for this insatiable suffragist?”

Mary shook her head. “No, no, Mr. Farraday, I can't argue, either

personally or on paper. You should hear me trying to make a speech!

Pathetic.”

Stefan, who had ceased to follow the conversation, and was restlessly

examining prints on the wall, turned at this. “Don't do it, dearest.

Argument is so unbeautiful, and I couldn't stand your doing anything

badly.” He drifted away to a group of women who were discussing the

Italian Futurists.

“Tell me about this lion, James,” said Constance, settling herself on

the sofa. “I believe she is too modest to tell me herself.” She looked

at Mary affectionately.

“She has written a second 'Child's Garden,' almost rivaling the first,

and we have a child's story of hers which will be as popular as some of

Frances Hodgson Burnett's,” summed up Farraday.

Mary blushed with pleasure at this praise, but was about to deprecate

it when Stefan signaled her away. “Mary,” he called, “I want you to hear

this I am saying about the Cubists!” She left them with a little smile

of excuse, and they watched her tall figure join her husband.

“James,” said Mrs. Elliot irrelevantly, “why in the world don't you

marry?”

“Because, Constance,” he smiled, “all the women I most admire in the

world are already married.”

“À propos, have you seen Mr. Byrd's work?” she asked.

“Only some drawings, from which I suspect him of genius. But she is as

gifted in her way as he, only it's a smaller way.”

“Don't place him till you've seen his big picture, painted from her.

It's tremendous. We've got to have it exhibited at Constantine's. I

want you to help me arrange it for them. She's inexperienced, and he's

helplessly unpractical. Oh!” she grasped his arm; “a splendid idea! Why

shouldn't I have a private exhibition here first, for the benefit of the

Cause?”

Farraday threw up his hands. “You are indefatigable, Constance. We'd

better all leave it to you. The Byrds and Suffrage will benefit equally,

I am sure.”

“I will arrange it,” she nodded smiling, her eyes narrowing, her slim

hands dropping the jade beads from one to the other.

Farraday, knowing her for the moment lost to everything save her latest

piece of stage management, left her, and joined the Byrds. He engaged

himself to visit their studio the following week.

IX

Miss Mason was folding her knitting, and Mary sat in the firelight

sewing diligently. Stefan was out in search of paints.

“I tell you what 'tis, Mary Elliston Byrd,” said Miss Mason. “It's 'bout

time you saw a doctor. My mother was a physician-homeopath, one of the

first that ever graduated. Take my advice, and have a woman.”

“I'd much rather,” said Mary.

“I should say!” agreed the other. “I never was one to be against the

men, but oh, my--” she threw up her bony little hands--“if there's one

thing I never could abide it's a man doctor for woman's work. I s'pose

I got started that way by what my mother told me of the medical students

in her day. Anyway, it hardly seems Christian to me for a woman to go to

a man doctor.”

Mary laughed. “I wish my dear old Dad could have heard you. I remember

he once refused to meet a woman doctor in consultation. She had to leave

Lindum--no one would employ her. I was a child at the time, but even

then it seemed all wrong to me.”

“My dear, you thank the Lord you live under the Stars and Stripes,”

rejoined Miss Mason, who conceived of England as a place beyond the

reach of liberty for either women or men.

“I shall live under the Tricolor if Stefan has his way,” smiled Mary.

“Child,” said her visitor, putting on her hat, “don't say it. Your

husband's an elegant man--I admire him--but don't you ever let me hear

he doesn't love his country.”

“I'm certainly learning to love it myself,” Mary discreetly evaded.

“You're too fine a woman not to,” retorted the other. “Now I tell you.

I've been treated for my chest at the Women's and Children's Hospital.

There's one little doctor there's cute's she can be. I'm goin' to get

you her address. You've got to treat yourself right. Good-bye,” nodded

the little woman; and was gone in her usual brisk fashion.

It was the day of Mr. Farraday's expected call, and Miss Mason had

hardly departed when the bell rang. Mary hastily put away her sewing

and pressed the electric button which opened the downstairs door to

visitors. She wished Stefan were back again to help her entertain the

editor, and greeted him with apologies for her husband's absence. She

was anxious that this man, whom she instinctively liked and trusted,

should see her husband at his best. Seating Farraday in the Morris

chair, she got him some tea, while he looked about with interest.

The two big pictures, “Tempest,” and “Pursuit,” now hung stretched but

unframed, on either side of the room. Farraday's gaze kept returning to

them.

“Those are his Beaux Arts pictures; extraordinary, aren't they?” said

Mary, following his eyes.

“They certainly are. Remarkably powerful. I understand there is another,

though, that he has only just finished?”

“Yes, it's on the easel, covered, you see,” she answered. “Stefan must

have the honor of showing you that himself.”

“I wish you would tell me, Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, changing the

subject, “how you happened to write those verses? Had you been brought

up with children, younger brothers and sisters, for instance?”

Mary shook her head. “No, I'm the younger of two. But I've always loved

children more than anything in the world.” She blushed, and Farraday,

watching her, realized for the first time what a certain heightened

radiance in her face betokened. He smiled very sweetly at her. She in

her turn saw that he knew, and was glad. His manner seemed to enfold her

in a mantle of comfort and understanding.

As they finished their tea, Stefan arrived. He entered gaily, greeted

Farraday, and fell upon the tea, consuming two cups and several slices

of bread and butter with the rapid concentration he gave to all his

acts.

That finished, he leaped up and made for the easel.

“Now, Farraday,” he cried, “you are going to see one of the finest

modern paintings in the world. Why should I be modest about it? I'm not.

It's a masterpiece--Mary's and mine!”

Mary wished he had not included her. Though determined to overcome the

feeling, she still shrank from having the picture shown in her presence.

Farraday placed himself in position, and Stefan threw back the cloth,

watching the other's face with eagerness. The effect surpassed his

expectation. The editor flushed, then gradually became quite pale. After

a minute he turned rather abruptly from the canvas and faced Stefan.

“You are right, Mr. Byrd,” he said, in an obviously controlled voice,

“it _is_ a masterpiece. It will make your name and probably your

fortune. It is one of the most magnificent modern paintings I have ever

seen.”

Mary beamed.

“Your praise honors me,” said Stefan, genuinely delighted.

“I'm sorry I have to run away now,” Farraday continued almost hurriedly.

“You know what a busy man I am.” He shook hands with Stefan. “A thousand

congratulations,” he said. “Good-bye, Mrs. Byrd; I enjoyed my cup of tea

with you immensely.” The hand he offered her was cold; he hardly looked

up. “You will let me have some more stories, won't you? I shall count

on them. Good-bye again--my warmest congratulations to you both,” and

he took his departure with a suddenness only saved from precipitation by

the deliberate poise of his whole personality.

“I'm sorry he had to go so soon,” said Mary, a little blankly.

“What got into the man?” Stefan wondered, thrusting his hands into his

pockets. “He was leisurely enough till he had seen the picture. I tell

you what!” he exclaimed. “Did you notice his expression when he looked

at it? I believe the chap is in love with you!” He turned his most

impish and mischievous face to her.

Mary blushed with annoyance. “How perfectly ridiculous, Stefan! Please

don't say such things.”

“But he is!” He danced about the room, hugely entertained by his idea.

“Don't you see, that is why he is so eager about your verses, and why he

was so bouleversé by the Danaë! Poor chap, I feel quite sorry for him.

You must be nice to him.”

Mary was thoroughly annoyed. “Please don't talk like that,” she

reiterated. “You don't know how it hurts when you are so flippant. If

you suggest such a reason for his acceptance of my work, of course I

can't send in any more.” Tears of vexation were in her eyes.

“Darling, don't be absurd,” he responded, teasingly. “Why shouldn't he

be in love with you? I expect everybody to be so. As for your verses, of

course he wouldn't take them if they weren't good; I didn't mean that.”

“Then why did you say it?” she asked, unplacated.

“Dearest!” and he kissed her. “Don't be dignified; be Aphrodite again,

not Pallas. I never mean anything I say, except when I say I love you!”

“Love isn't the only thing, Stefan,” she replied.

“Isn't it? What else is there? I don't know,” and he jumped on the table

and sat smiling there with his head on one side, like a naughty little

boy facing his schoolmaster.

She wanted to answer “comprehension,” but was silent, feeling the

uselessness of further words. How expect understanding of a common human

hurt from this being, who alternately appeared in the guise of a god

and a gamin? She remembered the old tale of the maiden wedded to

the beautiful and strange elf-king. Was the legend symbolic of that

mysterious thread--call it genius or what you will--that runs its

erratic course through humanity's woof, marring yet illuminating the

staid design, never straightened with its fellow-threads, never tied,

and never to be followed to its source? With the feeling of having for

an instant held in her hand the key to the riddle of his nature, Mary

went to Stefan and ran her fingers gently through his hair.

“Child,” she said, smiling at him rather sadly; and “Beautiful,” he

responded, with a prompt kiss.

X

The next morning brought Constance Elliot, primed with a complete scheme

for the future of the Danaë. She found Mary busy with her sewing and

Stefan rather restlessly cleaning his pallette and brushes. The great

picture was propped against the wall, a smaller empty canvas being

screwed on the easel. Stefan greeted her enthusiastically.

“Come in!” he cried, forestalling Mary. “You find us betwixt and

between. She's finished,” indicating the Danaë, “and I'm thinking

of doing an interior, with Mary seated. I don't know,” he went on

thoughtfully; “it's quite out of my usual line, but we're too domestic

here just now for anything else.” His tone was slightly grumbling. From

the rocking chair Constance smiled importantly on them both. She had

the happy faculty of never appearing to hear what should not have been

expressed.

“Children,” she said, “your immediate future is arranged. I have a plan

for the proper presentation of the masterpiece to a waiting world, and

I haven't been responsible for two suffrage matinees and a mile of the

Parade for nothing. I understand publicity. Now listen.”

She outlined her scheme to them. The reporters were to be sent for and

informed that the great new American painter, sensation of this year's

Salon, had kindly consented to a private exhibition of his masterpiece

at her house for the benefit of the Cause. Tickets, one dollar each, to

be limited to two hundred.

“Then a bit about your both being Suffragists, and about Mary's writing,

you know,” she threw in. “Note the value of the limited sale--at once it

becomes a privilege to be there.” Tickets, she went on to explain, would

be sent to the art critics of the newspapers, and Mr. Farraday would

arrange to get Constantine himself and one or two of the big private

connoisseurs. She personally knew the curator of the Metropolitan, and

would get him. The press notices would be followed by special letters

and articles by some of these men. Then Constantine would announce a

two weeks' exhibition at his gallery, the public would flock, and the

picture would be bought by one of the big millionaires, or a gallery.

“I've arranged it all,” she concluded triumphantly, looking from one to

the other with her dark alert glance.

Stefan was grinning delightedly, his attention for the moment completely

captured. Mary's sewing had dropped to her lap; she was round-eyed.

“But the sale itself, Mrs. Elliot, you can hardly have arranged that?”

she laughed.

Constance waved her hand. “That arranges itself. It is enough to set the

machinery in motion.”

“Do you mean to say,” went on Mary, half incredulous, “that you can

simply send for the reporters and get them to write what you want?”

“Within reason, certainly,” answered the other. “Why not?”

“In England,” Mary laughed, “if a woman were to do that, unless she were

a duchess, a Pankhurst, or a great actress, they wouldn't even come.”

Constance dismissed this with a shrug. “Ah, well, my dear, luckly we're

not in England! I'm going to begin to-day. I only came over to get your

permission. Let me see--this is the sixteenth--too near Christmas. I'll

have the tickets printed and the press announcement prepared, and

we'll let them go in the dead week after Christmas, when the papers are

thankful for copy. We'll exhibit the first Saturday in the New Year. For

a week we'll have follow-up articles, and then Constantine will take

it. You blessed people,” and she rose to go, “don't have any anxiety.

Suffragists always put things through, and I shall concentrate on this

for the next three weeks. I consider the picture sold.”

Mary tried to express her gratitude, but the other waved it aside. “I

just love you both,” she cried in her impulsive way, “and want to see

you where you ought to be--at the top!” She shook hands with Stefan

effusively. “Mind you get on with your next picture!” she cried in

parting; “every one will be clamoring for your work!”

“Oh, Stefan, isn't it awfully good of her?” exclaimed Mary, linking her

arm through his. He was staring at his empty canvas. “Yes, splendid,”

he responded carelessly, “but of course she'll have the kudos, and her

organization will benefit, too.”

“Stefan!” Mary dropped his arm, dumfounded. It was not possible he

should be so ungenerous. She would have remonstrated, but saw he was

oblivious of her.

“Yes,” he went on absently, looking from the room to the canvas, “it's

fine for every one all round--just as it should be. Now, Mary, if you

will sit over there by the fire and take your sewing, I think I'll try

and block in that Dutch interior effect I noticed some time back. The

light is all wrong, but I can get the thing composed.”

He was lost in his new idea. Mary told herself she had in part misjudged

him. His comment on their friend's assistance was not dictated by lack

of appreciation so much as by indifference. No sooner was the picture's

future settled than he had ceased to be interested in it. The practical

results of its sale would have little real meaning for him, she knew.

She began to see that all he asked of humanity was that it should leave

him untrammeled to do his work, while yielding him full measure of the

beauty and acclamation that were his food. “Well,” she thought, “I'm

the wife of a genius. It's a great privilege, but it is strange, for I

always supposed if I married it would simply be some good, kind man. He

would have been very dull,” she smiled to herself, mentally contrasting

the imagined with the real.

A few days before Christmas Mary noticed that one of the six skyscraper

studies was gone from the studio. She spoke of it, fearing the

possibility of a theft, but Stefan murmured rather vaguely that it was

all right--he was having it framed. Also, on three consecutive mornings

she awakened to find him busily painting at a small easel close under

the window, which he would hastily cover on hearing her move. As

he evidently did not wish her to see it, she wisely restrained her

curiosity. She was herself busy with various little secrets--there was

some knitting to be done whenever his back was turned, and she had made

several shopping expeditions. On Christmas Eve Stefan was gone the whole

afternoon, and returned radiant, full of absurd jokes and quivers of

suppressed glee. He was evidently highly pleased with himself, but

cherished with touching faith, she thought, the illusion that his manner

betrayed nothing.

That night, when she was supposed to be asleep, she felt him creep

carefully out of bed, heard him fumbling for his dressing gown, and

saw a shaft of light as the studio door was cautiously opened. A moment

later a rustling sounded through the transom, followed by the shrill

whisper of Madame Corriani. Listening, she fell asleep.

She was wakened by Stefan's arms round her.

“A happy Christmas, darling! So wonderful--the first Christmas I ever

remember celebrating.”

There was a ruddy glow of firelight in the room, but to her opening eyes

it seemed unusually dark, and in a moment she saw that the great piece

of Chinese silk they used for their couch cover was stretched across the

room on cords, shutting off the window end. She jumped up hastily.

“Oh, Stefan, how thrilling!” she exclaimed, girlishly excited. As for

him, he was standing before her dressed, and obviously tingling with

impatience. She slipped into a dressing gown of white silk, and caught

her hair loosely up. Simultaneously Stefan emerged from the kitchenette

with two steaming cups of coffee, which he placed on a table before the

fire.

“Clever boy!” she exclaimed delighted, for he had never made the coffee

before. In a moment he produced rolls and butter.

“Déjeuner first,” he proclaimed gleefully, “and then the surprise!” They

ate their meal as excitedly as two children. In the midst of it Mary

rose and, fetching from the bureau two little ribbon-tied parcels,

placed them in his hands.

“For me? More excitements!” he warbled. “But I shan't open them till the

curtain comes down. There, we've finished.” He jumped up. “Beautiful,

allow me to present to you the Byrds' Christmas tree.” With a dramatic

gesture he unhooked a cord. The curtain fell. There in the full morning

light stood a tree, different from any Mary had ever seen. There were no

candles on it, but from top to bottom it was all one glittering white.

There were no garish tinsel ornaments, but from every branch hung a

white bird, wings outstretched, and under each bird lay, on the branch

below, something white. At the foot of the tree stood a little painting

framed in pale silver. It was of a nude baby boy, sitting wonderingly

upon a hilltop at early dawn. His eyes were lifted to the sky, his hands

groped. Mary, with an exclamation of delight, stepped nearer. Then she

saw what the white things were under the spreading wings of the birds.

Each was the appurtenance of a baby. One was a tiny cap, one a cloak,

others were dresses, little jackets, vests. There were some tiny white

socks, and, at the very top of the tree, a rattle of white coral and

silver.

“Oh, Stefan, my dearest--'the little white bird'!” she cried.

“Do you like it, darling?” he asked delightedly, his arms about her.

“Mrs. Elliot told me about Barrie's white bird--I hadn't known the

story. But I wanted to show you I was glad about ours,” he held her

close, “and directly she spoke of the bird, I thought of this. She went

with me to get those little things--” he waved at the tree--“some of

them are from her. But the picture was quite my own idea. It's right,

isn't it? What you would feel, I mean? I tried to get inside your

heart.”

She nodded, her eyes shining with tears. She could find no words to

tell him how deeply she was touched. Her half-formed doubts were swept

away--he was her own dear man, kind and comprehending. She took the

little painting and sat with it on her knee, poring over it, Stefan

standing by delighted at his success. Then he remembered his own

parcels. The larger he opened first, and instantly donned one of the two

knitted ties it held, proclaiming its golden brown vastly becoming. The

smaller parcel contained a tiny jeweler's box, and in it Stefan found an

old and heavy seal ring of pure design, set with a transparent greenish

stone, which bore the intaglio of a winged head. He was enchanted.

“Mary, you wonder,” he cried. “You must have created this--you couldn't

just have found it. It symbolizes what you have given me--sums up all

that you are!” and he kissed her rapturously.

“Oh, Stefan,” she answered, “it is all perfect, for your gift symbolizes

what you have brought to me!”

“Yes, darling, but not all I am to you, I hope,” he replied, rubbing his

cheek against hers.

“Foolish one,” she smiled back at him.

They spent a completely happy day, rejoicing in the successful attempt

of each to penetrate the other's mind. They had never, even on their

honeymoon, felt more at one. Later, Mary asked him about the missing

sketch.

“Yes, I sold it for the bird's trappings,” he answered gleefully;

“wasn't it clever of me? But don't ask me for the horrid details, and

don't tell me a word about my wonderful ring. I prefer to consider that

you fetched it from Olympus.”

And Mary, whose practical conscience had given her sharp twinges over

her extravagance, was glad to let it rest at that.

During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card

of James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to

them both from McEwan. The postman contributed several cards, and a

tiny string of pink coral from Miss Mason. “How kind every one is!” Mary

cried happily.

In the afternoon the Corrianis were summoned. Mary had small presents

for them and a glass of wine, which Stefan poured to the accompaniment

of a song in his best Italian. This melted the somewhat sulky Corriani

to smiles, and his wife to tears. The day closed with dinner at their

beloved French hotel, and a bottle of Burgundy shared with Stefan's

favorite waiters.

XI

During Christmas week Stefan worked hard at his interior, but about the

fifth day began to show signs of restlessness. The following morning,

after only half an hour's painting, he threw down his brush.

“It's no use, Mary,” he announced, “I don't think I shall ever be able

to do this kind of work; it simply doesn't inspire me.”

She looked up from her sewing. “Why, I thought it promised charmingly.”

“That's just it.” He ruffled his hair irritably. “It does. Can you

imagine my doing anything 'charming'? No, the only hope for this

interior is for me to get depth into it, and depth won't come--it's

facile.” And he stared disgustedly at the canvas.

“I think I know what you mean,” Mary answered absently. She was thinking

that his work had power and height, but that depth she had never seen in

it.

Stefan shook himself. “Oh, come along, Mary, let's get out of this.

We've been mewed up in this domestic atmosphere for days. I shall

explode soon. Let's go somewhere.”

“Very well,” she agreed, folding up her work.

“You feel all right, don't you?” he checked himself to ask.

“Rather, don't I look it?”

“You certainly do,” he replied, but without his usual praise of her. “I

have it, let's take a look at Miss Felicity Berber! I shall probably get

some new ideas from her. Happy thought! Come on, Mary, hat, coat, let's

hurry.” He was all impatience to be gone.

They started to walk up the Avenue, stopping at the hotel to find in the

telephone book the number of the Berber establishment. It was entered,

“Berber, Felicity, Creator of Raiment.”

“How affected!” laughed Mary.

“Yes,” said Stefan, “amusing people usually are.”

Though he appeared moody the crisp, sunny air of the Avenue gradually

brightened him, and Mary, who was beginning to feel her confined

mornings, breathed it in joyfully.

The house was in the thirties, a large building of white marble. A lift

carried them to the top floor, and left them facing a black door with

“Felicity Berber” painted on it in vermilion letters. Opening this, they

found themselves in a huge windowless room roofed with opaque glass.

The floor was inlaid in a mosaic of uneven tiles which appeared to be of

different shades of black. The walls, from roof to floor, were hung with

shimmering green silk of the shade of a parrot's wing. There were no

show-cases or other evidences of commercialism, but about the room were

set couches of black japanned wood, upon which rested flat mattresses

covered in the same green as the walls. On these silk cushions in black

and vermilion were piled. The only other furniture consisted of low

tables in black lacquer, one beside every couch. On each of these rested

a lacquered bowl of Chinese red, obviously for the receipt of cigarette

ashes. A similar but larger bowl on a table near the door was

filled with green orchids. One large green silk rug--innocent of

pattern--invited the entering visitor deeper into the room; otherwise

the floor was bare. There were no pictures, no decorations, merely

this green and black background, relieved by occasional splashes of

vermilion, and leading up to a great lacquered screen of the same hue

which obscured a door at the further end of the room.

From the corner nearest the entrance a young woman advanced to meet

them. She was clad in flowing lines of opalescent green, and her black

hair was banded low across the forehead with a narrow line of emerald.

“You wish to see raiment?” was her greeting.

Mary felt rather at a loss amidst these ultra-aestheticisms, but Stefan

promptly asked to see Miss Berber.

“Madame rarely sees new clients in the morning.” The green damsel was

pessimistic. Mary felt secretly amused at the ostentatious phraseology.

“Tell her we are friends of Mrs. Theodore Elliot's,” replied Stefan,

with his most brilliant and ingratiating smile.

The damsel brightened somewhat. “If I may have your name I will see

what can be done,” she offered, extending a small vermilion tray. Stefan

produced a card and the damsel floated with it toward the distant exit.

Her footsteps were silent on the dead tiling, and there was no sound

from the door beyond the screen.

“Isn't this a lark? Let's sit down,” Stefan exclaimed, leading the way

to a couch.

“It's rather absurd, don't you think?” smiled Mary.

“No doubt, but amusing enough for mere mortals,” he shrugged, a scarcely

perceptible snub in his tone. Mary was silent. They waited for several

minutes. At last instinct rather than hearing made them turn to see a

figure advancing down the room.

Both instantly recognized the celebrated Miss Berber. A small, slim

woman, obviously light-boned and supple, she seemed to move forward

like a ripple. Her naturally pale face, with its curved scarlet lips and

slanting eyes, was set on a long neck, and round her small head a heavy

swathe of black hair was held by huge scarlet pins. Her dress, cut in

a narrow V at the neck, was all of semi-transparent reds, the brilliant

happy reds of the Chinese. In fact, but for her head, she would have

been only half visible as she advanced against the background of the

screen. Mary's impression of her was blurred, but Stefan, whose artist's

eye observed everything, noticed that her narrow feet were encased in

heelless satin shoes which followed the natural shape of the feet like

gloves.

“Mr. and Mrs. Byrd! How do you do?” she murmured, and her voice

was light-breathed, a mere memory of sound. It suggested that she

customarily mislaid it, and recaptured only an echo.

“Pull that other couch a little nearer, please,” she waved to Stefan,

appropriating the one from which they had just risen. Upon this she

stretched her full length, propping the cushions comfortably under her

shoulders.

“Do you smoke?” she breathed, and stretching an arm produced from a

hidden drawer in the table at her elbow cigarettes in a box of

black lacquer, and matches in one of red. Mary declined, but Stefan

immediately lighted a cigarette for himself and held a match for Miss

Berber. Mary and he settled themselves on the couch which he drew up,

and which slipped readily over the tiles.

“Now we can talk,” exhaled their hostess on a spiral of smoke. “I never

see strangers in the morning, not even friends of dear Connie's, but

there was something in the name--” She seemed to be fingering a small

knob protruding from the lacquer of her couch. It must have been a bell,

for in a moment the green maiden appeared.

“Chloris, has that picture come for the sylvan fitting room?” she

murmured. “Yes? Bring it, please.” Her gesture seemed to waft the damsel

over the floor. During this interlude the Byrds were silent, Stefan

hugely entertained, Mary beginning to feel a slight antagonism toward

this super-casual dressmaker.

A moment and the attendant nymph reappeared, bearing a large canvas

framed in glistening green wood.

“Against the table--toward Mr. Byrd.” Miss Berber supplemented the

murmur with an indicative gesture. “You know that?” dropped from her

lips as the nymph glided away.

It was Stefan's pastoral of the dancing faun. He nodded gaily, but Mary

felt herself blushing. Her husband's work destined for a fitting room!

“I thought so,” Miss Berber enunciated through a breath of smoke.

“I picked it up the other day. Quite lovely. My sylvan fitting room

required just that note. I use it for country raiment only. Atmosphere,

Mr. Byrd. I want my clients to feel young when they are preparing for

the country. I am glad to see you here.”

Stefan reciprocated. So far, Miss Berber had ignored Mary.

“I might consult you about my next color scheme--original artists are so

rare. I change this room every year.” Her eyelids drooped.

At this point Mary ventured to draw attention to herself.

“Why is it, Miss Berber,” she asked in her clear English voice, “that

you have only couches here?”

Felicity's lids trembled; she half looked up. “How seldom one hears

a beautiful voice,” she uttered. “Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's

beauty. Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets;

reclining encourages them to feel at ease without.”

Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation

heightened her respect for her intelligence. “Method in her madness,”

she quoted to herself.

“Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when

you look at her you will be interested in the idea.” Stefan expected

every one to pay tribute to Mary's beauty.

Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. “How long

have I, Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the

silence, Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves.

Without it, I could not do my work.”

Mary smiled as she mentally contrasted these surroundings with

Farraday's office, where she had last heard that expression. Was quiet

so rare a privilege in America, she wondered?

A moment, and a second damsel emerged, brown-haired, clad in a paler

green, and carrying paper and pencil. Not until this ministrant had

seated herself at the foot of Miss Berber's couch did that lady refer

to Stefan's request. Then, propping herself on her elbow, she at last

looked full at Mary. What she saw evidently pleased her, for she allowed

herself a slight smile. “Ah,” she breathed, “an evening, or a house

gown?”

“Evening,” interposed Stefan. Then to Mary, “You look your best

decolletée, you know.”

“Englishwomen always do,” murmured Miss Berber.

“Will you kindly take off your hat and coat, and stand up, Mrs. Byrd?”

Mary complied, feeling uncomfortably like a cloak model.

“Classic, pure classic. How seldom one sees it!” Miss Berber's voice

became quite audible. “Gold, of course, classic lines, gold sandals.

A fillet, but no ornaments. You wish to wear this raiment during the

ensuing months, Mrs. Byrd?” Mary nodded. “Then write Demeter type,” the

designer interpolated to her satellite, who was taking notes. “Otherwise

it would of course be Artemis--or Aphrodite even?” turning for agreement

to Stefan. “Would you say Aphrodite?”

“I always do,” beamed he, delighted.

At this point the first nymph, Chloris, again appeared, and at a motion

of Miss Berber's hand rapidly and silently measured Mary, the paler hued

nymph assisting her as scribe.

“Mr. Byrd,” pronounced the autocrat of the establishment, when at the

conclusion of these rites the attendants had faded from the room. “I

never design for less than two hundred dollars. Such a garment as I

have in mind for your wife, queenly and abundant--” her hands waved in

illustration--“would cost three hundred. But--” her look checked Mary

in an exclamation of refusal--“we belong to the same world, the world

of art, not of finance. Yes?” She smiled. “Your painting, Mr. Byrd, is

worth three times what I gave for it, and Mrs. Byrd will wear my raiment

as few clients can. It will give me pleasure”--her lids drooped

to illustrate finality--“to make this garment for the value of

the material, which will be--” her lips smiled amusement at the

bagatelle--“between seventy and eighty-five dollars--no more.” She

ceased.

Mary felt uncomfortable. Why should she accept such a favor at the hands

of this poseuse? Stefan, however, saved her the necessity of decision.

He leapt to his feet, all smiles.

“Miss Berber,” he cried, “you honor us, and Mary will glorify your

design. It is probable,” he beamed, “that we cannot afford a dress at

all, but I disregard that utterly.” He shrugged, and snapped a finger.

“You have given me an inspiration. As soon as the dress arrives, I shall

paint Mary as Demeter. Mille remerciements!” Bending, he kissed Miss

Berber's hand in the continental manner. Mary, watching, felt a tiny

prick of jealousy. “He never kissed my hand,” she thought, and instantly

scorned herself for the idea.

The designer smiled languidly up at Stefan. “I am happy,” she murmured.

“No fittings, Mrs. Byrd. We rarely fit, except the model gowns. You will

have the garment in a week. Au revoir.” Her eyes closed. They turned

to find a high-busted woman entering the room, accompanied by two young

girls. As they departed a breath-like echo floated after them, “Oh,

really, Mrs. Van Sittart--still those corsets? I can do nothing for you,

you know.” Tones of shrill excuse penetrated to the lift door. At the

curb below stood a dyspeptically stuffed limousine, guarded by two men

in puce liveries.

The Byrds swung southward in silence, but suddenly Stefan heaved a

great breath. “Nom d'un nom d'un nom d'un vieux bonhomme!” he exploded,

voicing in that cumulative expletive his extreme satisfaction with the

morning.

XII

Constance Elliot had not boasted her stage-management in vain. On the

first Saturday in January all proceeded according to schedule. The

Danaë, beautifully framed, stood at the farther end of Constance's

double drawing-room, from which all other mural impedimenta, together

with most of the furniture, had been removed. Expertly lighted, the

picture glowed in the otherwise obscure room like a thing of flame.

Two hundred ticket holders came, saw, and were conquered. Farraday, in

his most correct cutaway, personally conducted a tour of three

eminent critics to the Village. Sir Micah, the English curator of the

Metropolitan, reflectively tapping an eye-glass upon an uplifted finger

tip, pronounced the painting a turning-point in American art. Four

reporters--whose presence in his immediate vicinity Constance had

insured--transferred this utterance to their note books. Artists gazed,

and well-dressed women did not forbear to gush. Tea, punch, and yellow

suffrage cakes were consumed in the dining room. There was much noise

and excessive heat. In short, the occasion was a success.

Toward the end, when few people remained except the genial Sir Micah,

whom Constance was judiciously holding with tea, smiles, and a good

cigar, the all-important Constantine arrived. Prompted, Sir Micah was

induced to repeat his verdict. But the picture spoke for itself, and

the famous dealer was visibly impressed. Constance was able to eat her

dinner at last with a comfortable sense of accomplishment. She was only

sorry that the Byrds had not been there to appreciate her strategy.

Stefan, indeed, did appear for half an hour, but Mary's courage had

failed her entirely. She had succumbed to an attack of stage fright and

shut herself up at home.

As for Stefan, he had developed one of his most contrary moods. Refusing

conventional attire, he clad himself in the baggy trousers and flowing

tie of his student days, under the illusion that he was thus defying

the prejudices of Philistia. He was unaware that the Philistines,

as represented by the gentlemen of the press, considered his costume

quintessentially correct for an artist just returned from Paris, and

would have been grieved had he appeared otherwise. Unconsciously playing

to the gallery, Stefan on arrival squared himself against a doorway and

eyed the crowds with a frown of disapprobation. He had not forgotten his

early snubs from the dealers, and saw in every innocent male visitor one

of the fraternity.

Constance, in her bid for publicity, had sold most of her tickets to the

socially prominent, so that Stefan was soon surrounded by voluble ladies

unduly furred, corseted, and jeweled. He found these unbeautiful, and

his misanthropy, which had been quiescent of late, rose rampant.

Presently he was introduced to a stout matron, whose costume centered in

an enormous costal cascade of gray pearls.

“Mr. Byrd,” she gushed, “I dote on art. I've made a study of it, and I

can say that your picture is a triumph.”

“Madam,” he fairly scowled, “it is as easy for the rich to enter the

kingdom of Art as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”

Leaving her pink with offense, he turned his back and, shaking off other

would-be admirers, sought his hostess.

“My God, I can't stand any more of this--I'm off,” he confided to her.

Constance was beginning to know her man. She gave him a quick scrutiny.

“Yes, I think you'd better be,” she agreed, “before you spoil any of

my good work. An absent lion is better than a snarling one. Run home to

Mary.” She dismissed him laughingly, and Stefan catapulted himself

out of the house, thereby missing the attractive Miss Berber by a few

minutes. Dashing home across the Square, he flung himself on the divan

with every appearance of exhaustion. “Sing to me, Mary,” he implored.

“Why, Stefan,” she asked, startled, “wasn't it a success? What's the

matter?”

“Success!” he scoffed. “Oh, yes. They all gushed and gurgled and

squeaked and squalled. Horrible! Sing, dearest; I must hear something

beautiful.”

Failing to extract more from him, she complied.

The next day brought a full account of his success from Constance,

and glowing tributes from the papers. The head-lines ranged from

“Suffragettes Unearth New Genius” to “Distinguished Exhibit at Home of

Theodore M. Elliot.” The verdict was unanimous. A new star had risen in

the artistic firmament. One look at the headings, and Stefan dropped

the papers in disgust, but Mary pored over them all, and found him quite

willing to listen while she read eulogistic extracts aloud.

Thus started, the fuse of publicity burnt brightly. Constance's

carefully planned follow-up articles appeared, and reporters besieged

the Byrds' studio. Unfortunately for Mary, these gentry soon discovered

that she was the Danaë's original, which fact created a mild succès de

scandale. Personal paragraphs appeared about her and her writing, and,

greatly embarrassed, she disconnected the door-bell for over a week. But

the picture was all the more talked about. In a week Constantine had it

on exhibition; in three, he had sold it for five thousand dollars to a

tobacco millionaire.

“Mary,” groaned Stefan when he heard the news, “we have given in to

Mammon. We are capitalists.”

“Oh, dear, think of our beautiful picture going to some odious nouveau

riche!” Mary sighed. But she was immeasurably relieved that Stefan's

name was made, and that they were permanently lifted from the ranks of

the needy.

That very day, as if to illustrate their change of status, Mrs. Corriani

puffed up the stairs with the news that the flat immediately below

them had been abandoned over night. The tenants, a dark couple of

questionable habits and nationality, had omitted the formality of paying

their rent--the flat was on the market. The outcome was that Stefan

and Mary, keeping their studio as a workshop, overflowed into the flat

beneath, and found themselves in possession of a bed and bathroom, a

kitchen and maid's room, and a sitting room. These they determined

to furnish gradually, and Mary looked forward to blissful mornings

at antique stores and auctions. She had been brought up amidst the

Chippendale, old oak, and brasses of a cathedral close, and new

furniture was anathema to her. A telephone and a colored maid-servant

were installed. Their picnicking days were over.

XIII

True to her word, Constance arranged a reception in the Byrds' honor, at

which they were to meet Felicity Berber. The promise of this encounter

reconciled Stefan to the affair, and he was moreover enthusiastically

looking forward to Mary's appearance in her new gown. This had arrived,

and lay swathed in tissue paper in its box. In view of their change

of fortune they had, in paying the account of seventy-five dollars,

concocted a little note to Miss Berber, hoping she would now reconsider

her offer, and render them a bill for her design. This note, written

and signed by Mary in her upright English hand, brought forth a

characteristic reply. On black paper and in vermilion ink arrived two

lines of what Mary at first took to be Egyptian hieroglyphics. Studied

from different angles, these yielded at last a single sentence: “A

gift is a gift, and repays itself.” This was followed by a signature

traveling perpendicularly down the page in Chinese fashion. It was

outlined in an oblong of red ink, but was itself written in green, the

capitals being supplied with tap-roots extending to the base of each

name. Mary tossed the letter over to Stefan with a smile. He looked at

it judicially.

“There's draughtsmanship in that,” he said; “she might have made an

etcher. It's drawing, but it's certainly not handwriting.”

On the evening of the party Stefan insisted on helping Mary to dress.

Together they opened the great green box and spread its contents on the

bed. The Creator of Raiment had not done things by halves. In addition

to the gown, she had supplied a wreath of pale white and gold metals,

representing two ears of wheat arranged to meet in a point over

the brow, and a pair of gilded shoes made on the sandal plan, with

silver-white buckles. Pinned to the gown was a printed green slip,

reading “No corsets, petticoats or jewelry may be worn with this garb.”

The dress was of heavy gold tissue, magnificently draped in generous

classic folds. It left the arms bare, the drapery being fastened on

either shoulder with great brooches of white metal, reproduced, as

Stefan at once recognized, from Greek models. Along all the edges of the

drapery ran a border of ears of wheat, embroidered in deep gold and

pale silver. Mary, who had hitherto only peeped at the gown, felt quite

excited when she saw it flung across the bed.

“Oh, Stefan, I do think it will be becoming,” she cried, her cheeks

bright pink. She had never dreamed of owning such a dress.

He was enchanted. “It's a work of art. Very few women could wear it, but

on you--! Well, it's worthy of you, Beautiful.”

During the dressing he made her quite nervous by his exact attention to

every detail. The arrangement of her hair and the precise position of

the wreath had to be tried and tried again, but the result justified

him.

“Olympian Deity,” he cried, “I must kneel to you!” And so he did,

gaily adoring, with a kiss for the hem of her robe. They started in the

highest spirits, Stefan correct this time in an immaculate evening suit

which Mary had persuaded him to order. As they prepared to enter the

drawing room he whispered, “You'll be a sensation. I'm dying to see

their faces.”

“Don't make me nervous,” she whispered back.

By nature entirely without self-consciousness, she had become very

sensitive since the Danaë publicity. But her nervousness only heightened

her color, and as with her beautiful walk she advanced into the room

there was an audible gasp from every side. Constance pounced upon her.

“You perfectly superb creature! You ought to have clouds rolling under

your feet. There, I can't express myself. Come and receive homage. Mr.

Byrd, you're the luckiest man on earth--I hope you deserve it all--but

then of course no man could. Mary, here are two friends of yours--Mr.

Byrd, come and be presented to Felicity.”

Farraday and McEwan had advanced toward them and immediately formed

the nucleus of a group which gathered about Mary. Stefan followed his

hostess across the room to a green sofa, on which, cigarette in hand,

reclined Miss Berber, surrounded by a knot of interested admirers.

“Yes, Connie,” that lady murmured, with the ghost of a smile, “I've met

Mr. Byrd. He brought his wife to the Studio.” She extended a languid

hand to Stefan, who bowed over it.

“Ah! I might have known you had a hand in that effect,” Constance

exclaimed, looking across the room toward Mary.

“Of course you might,” the other sighed, following her friend's eyes.

“It's perfect, I think; don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” and she actually

rose from the sofa to obtain a better view.

“Absolutely,” answered Stefan, riveted in his turn upon her.

Miss Berber was clad in black tulle, so transparent as barely to obscure

her form. Sleeves she had none. A trifle of gauze traveled over one

shoulder, leaving the other bare save for a supporting strap of tiny

scarlet beads. Her triple skirt was serrated like the petals of a black

carnation, and outlined with the same minute beads. Her bodice could

scarcely be said to exist, so deep was its V. From her ears long

ornaments of jet depended, and a comb in scarlet bead-work ran wholly

across one side of her head. A flower of the same hue and workmanship

trembled from the point of her corsage. She wore no rings, but her nails

were reddened, and her sleek black hair and scarlet lips completed the

chromatic harmony. The whole effect was seductive, but so crisp as to

escape vulgarity.

“I must paint you, Miss Berber,” was Stefan's comment.

“All the artists say that.” She waved a faint expostulation.

Her hands, he thought, had the whiteness and consistency of a camelia.

“All the artists are not I, however,” he answered with a smiling shrug.

“Greek meets Greek,” thought Constance, amused, turning away to other

guests.

“I admit that.” Miss Berber lit another cigarette. “I have seen your

Danaë. The people who have painted me have been fools. Obvious--treating

me like an advertisement for cold cream.”

She breathed a sigh, and sank again to the sofa. Her lids drooped as if

in weariness of such banalities. Stefan sat beside her, the manner of

both eliminating the surrounding group.

“One must have subtlety, must one not?” she murmured.

How subtle she was, he thought; how mysterious, in spite of her obvious

posing! He could not even tell whether she was interested in him.

“I shall paint you, Miss Berber,” he said, watching her, “as a Nixie.

Water creatures, you know, without souls.”

“No soul?” she reflected, lingering on a puff of smoke. “How chic!”

Stefan was delighted. Hopefully, he broke into French. She replied with

fluent ease, but with a strange, though charming, accent. The exotic

French fitted her whole personality, he felt, as English could not do.

He was pricked by curiosity as to her origin, and did not hesitate to

ask it, but she gave her shadow of a smile, and waved her cigarette

vaguely. “Quién sabe?” she shrugged.

“Do you know Spanish?” he asked in French, seeking a clue.

“Only what one picks up in California.” He was no nearer a solution.

“Were you out there long?”

She looked at him vaguely. “I should like some coffee, please.”

Defeated, he was obliged to fetch a cup. When he returned, it was to

find her talking monosyllabic English to a group of men.

Farraday and McEwan had temporarily resigned Mary to a stream of

newcomers, and stood watching the scene from the inner drawing room.

“James,” said McEwan, “get on to the makeup of the crowd round our lady,

and compare it with the specimens rubbering the little Berber.”

Farraday smiled in his grave, slow way.

“You're right, Mac, the substance and the shadow.”

Many of the women seated about the room were covertly staring at

Felicity, but so far none had joined her group. This consisted, besides

Stefan, of two callow and obviously enthralled youths, a heavy semi-bald

man with paunched eyes and a gluttonous mouth, and a tall languid person

wearing tufts of hair on unexpected parts of his face, and showing the

hands of a musician.

Round Mary stood half a dozen women, their host, the kindly and

practical Mr. Elliot, a white-haired man of distinguished bearing, and a

gigantic young viking with tawny hair and beard and powerful hands.

“That's Gunther, an A1 sculptor,” said McEwan, indicating the viking,

who was looking at Mary as his ancestors might have looked at a vision

of Freia.

“They're well matched, eh, James?”

“As well as she could be,” the other answered gravely. McEwan looked at

his friend. “Mon,” he said, relapsing to his native speech, “come and

hae a drop o' the guid Scotch.”

Constance had determined that Felicity should dance, in spite of her

well-known laziness. At this point she crossed the room to attack

her, expecting a difficult task, but, to her surprise, Felicity hardly

demurred. After a moment of sphinx-like communing, she dropped her

cigarette and rose.

“Mr. Byrd is going to paint me as something without a soul--I think I

will dance,” she cryptically vouchsafed.

“Shall I play?” offered Constance, delighted.

Miss Berber turned to the languid musician.

“Have you your ocarina, Marchmont?” she breathed.

“I always carry it, Felicity,” he replied, with a reproachful look,

drawing from his pocket what appeared to be a somewhat contorted

meerschaum pipe.

“Then no piano to-night, Connie. A little banal, the piano, perhaps.”

Her hands waved vaguely.

A space was cleared; chairs were arranged.

Miss Berber vanished behind a portiere. The languid Marchmont draped

himself in a corner, and put the fat little meerschaum to his lips. A

clear, jocund sound, a mere thread of music, as from the pipe of some

hidden faun, penetrated the room. The notes trembled, paused, and fell

to the minor. Felicity, feet bare, toes touched with scarlet, wafted

into the room. Her dancing was incredibly light; she looked like

some exotic poppy swaying to an imperceptible breeze. The dance was

languorously sad, palely gay, a thing half asleep, veiled. It seemed

always about to break into fierce life, yet did not. The scent of

mandragora hung over it--it was as if the dancer, drugged, were dreaming

of the sunlight.

When, waving a negligent hand to the applause, Felicity passed Stefan at

the end of her dance, he caught a murmured phrase from her.

“Not soulless, perhaps, but sleeping.” Whether she meant this as an

explanation of her dance or of herself he was not sure.

Mary watched the dance with admiration, and wished to compare her

impressions of it with her husband's. She tried to catch his eye across

the room at the end, but he had drifted away toward the dining room.

Momentarily disappointed, she turned to find Farraday at her elbow, and

gladly let him lead her, also, in search of refreshments. There was

a general movement in that direction, and the drawing room was almost

empty as McEwan, purpose in his eye, strode across it to Constance. He

spoke to her in an undertone.

“Sing? Does she? I had no idea! She never tells one such things,” his

hostess replied. “Do you think she would? But she has no music. You

could play for her? How splendid, Mr. McEwan. How perfectly lovely

of you. I'll arrange it.” She hurried out, leaving McEwan smiling at

nothing in visible contentment. In a few minutes she returned with Mary.

“Of course I will if you wish it,” the latter was saying, “but I've no

music, and only know foolish little ballads.”

“Mr. McEwan says he can vamp them all, and it will be too delightful to

have something from each of my women stars,” Constance urged. “Now I'll

leave you two to arrange it, and in a few minutes I'll get every one

back from the dining room,” she nodded, slipping away again.

“Cruel man, you've given me away,” Mary smiled.

“I always brag about my friends,” grinned McEwan. They went over to the

piano.

“What price the Bard! Do you know this?” His fingers ran into the old

air for “Sigh No More, Ladies.” She nodded.

“Yes, I like that.”

“And for a second,” he spun round on his stool, “what do you say to a

duet?” His candid blue eyes twinkled at her.

“A duet!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise. “Do you sing, Mr. McEwan?”

“Once in a while,” and, soft pedal down, he played a few bars of

Marzials' “My True Love Hath My Heart,” humming the words in an easy

barytone.

“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Mary. “I love that.” They tried it over, below

their breaths.

The room was filling again. People began to settle down expectantly;

McEwan struck his opening chords.

Just as Mary's first note sounded, Stefan and Felicity entered the room.

He started in surprise; then Mary saw him smile delightedly, and they

both settled themselves well in front.

“'Men were deceivers ever,'” sang Mary, with simple ease, and “'Hey

nonny, nonny.'” The notes fell gaily; her lips and eyes smiled.

There was generous applause at the end of the little song. Then McEwan

struck the first chords of the duet.

“'My true love hath my heart,'” Mary sang clearly, head up, eyes

shining. “'My true love hath my heart,'” replied McEwan, in his cheery

barytone.

“'--And I have his,'” Mary's bell tones announced.

“'--And I have his,'” trolled McEwan.

“'There never was a better bargain driven,'” the notes came, confident

and glad, from the golden figure with its clear-eyed, glowing face. They

ended in a burst of almost defiant optimism.

Applause was hearty and prolonged. McEwan slipped from his stool

and sought a cigarette in the adjoining room. There was a general

congratulatory movement toward Mary, in which both Stefan and Felicity

joined. Then people again began to break into groups. Felicity found her

sofa, Mary a chair. McEwan discovered Farraday under the arch between

the two drawing-rooms, and stood beside him to watch the crowd. Stefan

had moved with Felicity toward her sofa, and, as she disposed herself,

she seemed to be talking to him in French. McEwan and Farraday continued

their survey. Mary was surrounded by people, but her eyes strayed

across the room. Felicity appeared almost animated, but Stefan seemed

inattentive; he fidgeted, and looked vague.

A moment more, and quite abruptly he crossed the room, and planted

himself down beside Mary.

“Ah,” sighed McEwan, apparently à propos of nothing, and with a trace of

Scotch, “James, I'll now hae another whusky.”