Mary looked at him in frank astonishment.

"I don't understand you, Stefan," she said. "Mr. McEwan was kindness itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all."

She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it.

"Very well, G.o.ddess, don't flash your lightnings at me." He laughed gaily, and sat down to his luncheon. Throughout it Mary listened to a detailed account of his morning's work.

Next day she received by the first post a cheque for two hundred dollars, with a formal typewritten note from Farraday, expressing pleasure, and a hope that the Household Publishing Company might receive other ma.n.u.scripts from her for its consideration. Stefan was setting his pallette for a morning's work on the Danae. She called to him rather constrainedly from the door where she had opened the letter.

"Stefan, I've received a cheque for two hundred dollars for my story."

"That's splendid," he answered cheerfully. "If I sell these sketches we shall be quite rich. We must move from this absurd place to a proper studio flat. Mary shall have a white bathroom, and a beautiful blue and gold bed. Also minions to set food before her. Tra-la-la," and he hummed gaily. "I'm ready to begin, beloved," he added.

As Mary prepared for her sitting she could not subdue a slight feeling of irritation. Apparently she might never, even for a moment, enjoy the luxury of being a human being with ambitions like Stefan's own, but must remain ever pedestaled as his inspiration. She was irked, too, by his hopelessly unpractical att.i.tude toward affairs. She would have enjoyed the friendly status of a partner as a wholesome complement to the ardors of marriage. She knew that her husband differed from the legendary bohemian in having a strictly upright code in money matters, but she wished it could be less visionary. He mentally oscillated between pauperism and riches. Let him fail to sell a picture and he offered to p.a.w.n his coat; but the picture sold, he aspired to hire a mansion. In a word, she began to see that he was incapable either of foresight or moderation. Could she alone, she wondered, supply the deficiency?

That evening when they returned from dinner, which as a rare treat they had eaten in the cafe of their old hotel, they found McEwan waiting their arrival from a seat on the stairs.

"Here you are," his hearty voice called to them as they labored up the last flight. "I was determined not to miss you. I wanted to pay my respects to the couple, and see how the paint-slinging was getting on."

Mary, knowing now that the Scotchman was not the slow-witted blunderer he had appeared on board ship, looked at him with sudden suspicion. Was she deceived, or did there lurk a teasing gleam in those blue eyes?

Had McEwan used the outrageous phrase "paint-slinging" with malice aforethought? She could not be sure. But if his object was to get a rise from Stefan, he was only partly successful. True, her husband snorted with disgust, but, at a touch from her and a whispered "Be nice to him,"

restrained himself sufficiently to invite McEwan in with a frigid show of politeness. But once inside, and the candles lighted, Stefan leant glumly against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets, evidently determined to leave their visitor entirely on Mary's hands.

McEwan was nothing loath. He helped himself to a cigarette, and proceeded to survey the walls of the room with interest.

"Nifty work, Mrs. Byrd. You must be proud of him," and again Mary seemed to catch a glint in his eye. "These sketches now," he approached the table on which lay the skysc.r.a.per studies. "Very harsh--cruel, you might say--but clever, yes, _sir_, mighty clever." Mary saw Stefan writhe with irritation at the other's air of connoisseur. She shot him a glance at once amused and pleading, but he ignored it with a shrug, as if to indicate that Mary was responsible for this intrusion, and must expect no aid from him.

McEwan now faced the easel which held the great Danae, shrouded by a cloth.

"Is this the latest masterpiece--can it be seen?" he asked, turning to his host, his hand half stretched to the cover.

Mary made an exclamation of denial, and started forward to intercept the hand. But even as she moved, dismay visible on her face, the perverse devil which had been mounting in Stefan's brain attained the mastery.

She had asked him to be nice to this jacka.s.s--very well, he would.

"Yes, that's the best thing I've done, McEwan. As you're a friend of both of us, you ought to see it," he exclaimed, and before Mary could utter a protest had wheeled the easel round to the light and thrown back the drapery. He ma.s.sed the candles on the mantelpiece. "Here," he called, "stand here where you can see properly. Mythological, you see, Danae. What do you think of it?" There were mischief and triumph in his tone, and a shadow of spite.

Mary had blushed crimson and stood, incapable of speech, in the darkest corner of the room. McEwan had not noticed her protest, it had all happened so instantaneously. He followed Stefan's direction, and faced the canvas expectantly. There was a long silence. Mary, watching, saw the spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a discarded mask--the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment of malice had flashed and died--he stood biting his nails, already too ashamed to glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was homage in his eyes, and gravity.

"Mr. Byrd," he said, and his deep voice carried somewhat of its old Scottish burr, "I owe ye an apology. I took ye for a tricky young mon, clever, but better pleased with yersel' than ye had a right to be. I see ye are a great artist, and as such, ye hae the right even to the love of that lady. Now I will congratulate her." He strode over to Mary's corner and took her hand. "Dear leddy," he said, his native speech still more apparent, "I confess I didna think the young mon worthy, and in me blunderin' way, I would hae kept the two o' ye apart could I hae done it. But I was wrong. Ye've married a genius, and ye can be proud o'

the way ye're helping him. Now I'll bid ye good night, and I hope ye'll baith count me yer friend in all things." He offered his hand to Stefan, who took it, touched. Gravely he picked up his hat, and opened the door, turning for a half bow before closing it behind him.

Stefan knew that he had behaved unpardonably, that he had been betrayed into a piece of caddishness, but McEwan had given him the cue for his defense. He hastened to Mary and seized her hand.

"Darling, forgive me. I knew you didn't want the picture shown, but it's got to be done some day, hasn't it? It seemed a shame for McEwan not to see what you have inspired. I ought not to have shown it without asking you, but his appreciation justified me, don't you think?" His tone coaxed.

Mary was choking back her tears. Explanations, excuses, were to her trivial, nor was she capable of them. Wounded, she was always dumb, and to discuss a hurt seemed to her to aggravate it.

"Don't let's talk about it, Stefan," she murmured. "It seemed to me you showed the picture because I did not wish it--that's what I don't understand." She spoke lifelessly.

"No, no, you mustn't think that," he urged. "I was irritated, and I'm horribly sorry, but I do think it should be shown."

But Mary was not deceived. If only for a moment, he had been disloyal to her. The urge of her love made it easy to forgive him, but she knew she could not so readily forget.

Though she put a good face on the incident, though Stefan was his most charming self throughout the evening, even though she refused to recognize the loss, one veil of illusion had been stripped from her heart's image of him.

In his contrite mood, determined to please her, Stefan recalled the matter of her stories, and for the first time spoke of her success with enthusiasm. He asked her about the editor, and offered to go with her the next morning to show Mr. Farraday his sketches.

"Have you anything else to take him?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Mary. "I am to show him some verses I wrote at home in Lindum. Just little songs for children."

"Verses," he exclaimed; "how wonderful! I knew you were a G.o.ddess and a song-bird, but not that you were a poet, too."

"Nor am I; they are the most trifling things."

"I expect they are delicious, like your singing. Read them to me, beloved," he begged.

But Mary would not. He pressed her several times during the evening, but for the first time since their marriage he found he could not move her to compliance.

"Please don't bother about them, Stefan. They are for children; they would not interest you."

He felt himself not wholly forgiven.

VII

A day or two later the Byrds went together to the office of the Household Publishing Company and sent in their names to Mr. Farraday.

This time they had to wait their turn for admittance for over half an hour, sharing the benches of the outer office with several men and women of types ranging from the extreme of aestheticism to the obviously commercial. The office was hung with original drawings of the covers of the firm's three publications--The Household Review, The Household Magazine, and The Child at Home. Stefan prowled around the room mentally demolishing the drawings, while Mary glanced through the copies of the magazines that covered the large central table. She was impressed by the high level of makeup and ill.u.s.tration in all three periodicals, contrasting them with the obvious and often inane contents of similar English publications. At a glance the sheets appeared wholesome, but not narrow; dignified, but not dull. She wondered how much of their general tone they owed to Mr. Farraday, and determined to ask McEwan more about his friend when next she saw him. Her speculations were interrupted by Stefan, who somewhat excitedly pulled her sleeve, pointing to a colored drawing of a woman's head on the wall behind her.

"Look, Mary!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Rotten bourgeois art, but an interesting face, eh? I wonder if it's a good portrait. It says in the corner, 'Study of Miss Felicity Berber.' An actress, I expect. Look at the eyes; subtle, aren't they? And the heavy little mouth. I've never seen a face quite like it." He was visibly intrigued.

Mary thought the face provocative, but somewhat unpleasant.

"It's certainly interesting--the predatory type, I should think," she replied. "I'll bet it's true to life--the artist is too much of a fool to have created that expression," Stefan went on. "Jove, I should like to meet her, shouldn't you?" he asked navely.

"Not particularly," said Mary, smiling at him. "She'll have to be your friend; she's too feline for me."

"The very word, observant one," he agreed.

At this point their summons came. Mary was very anxious that her husband should make a good impression. "I hope you'll like him, dearest," she whispered as for the second time the editor's door opened to her.

Farraday shook hands with them pleasantly, but turned his level glance rather fixedly on her husband, Mary thought, before breaking into his kindly smile. Stefan returned the smile with interest, plainly delighted at the evidences of taste that surrounded him.

"I'm sorry you should have had to wait so long," said Farraday. "I'm rarely so fortunately unoccupied as on your first visit, Mrs. Byrd.

You've brought the verses to show me? Good! And Mr. Byrd has his drawings?" He turned to Stefan. "America owes you a debt for the new citizen you have given her, Mr. Byrd. May I offer my congratulations?"