"Then no piano to-night, Connie. A little ba.n.a.l, the piano, perhaps."

Her hands waved vaguely.

A s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed 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 a propos of nothing, and with a trace of Scotch, "James, I'll now hae another whusky."

PART III

THE NESTLING

I

Stefan's initial and astonishing success was not to be repeated that winter. The great Constantine, anxious to benefit by the flood tide of his client's popularity, had indeed called at the studio in search of more material, but after a careful survey, had decided against exhibiting "Tempest" and "Pursuit." Before these pictures he had stood wrapped in speculation for some time, pursing his lips and fingering the over-heavy seals of his fob. Mary had watched him eagerly, deeply curious as to the effect of the paintings. But Stefan had been careless to the point of rudeness; he had long since lost interest in his old work. When at last the swarthy little dealer, who was a Greek Jew, and had the keen, perceptions of both races, had shaken his head, Mary was not surprised, was indeed almost glad.

"Mr. Byrd," Constantine had p.r.o.nounced, in his heavy, imperfect English, "I think we would make a bad mistake to exhibit these paintings now.

Technically they are clever, oh, very clever indeed, but they would be unpopular; and this once," he smiled shrewdly, "the public would be right about it. Your Danae was a big conception as well as fine painting; it had inspiration--feeling--" his thick but supple hands circled in emphasis--"we don't want to go back simply to cleverness.

When you paint me something as big again as that one I exhibit it; otherwise," with a shrug, "I think we spoil our market."

After this visit Stefan, quite unperturbed, had turned the two fantasies to the wall.

"I dare say Constantine is right about them," he said; "they are rather crazy things, and anyhow, I'm sick of them."

Mary was quite relieved to have them hidden. The merman in particular had got upon her nerves of late.

As the winter advanced, the Byrds' circle of acquaintances grew, and many visitors dropped into the studio for tea. These showed much interest in Stefan's new picture, a large study of Mary in the guise of Demeter, for which she was posing seated, robed in her Berber gown. Miss Mason in particular was delighted with the painting, which she dubbed a "companion piece" to the Danae. The story of Constantine's decision against the two salon canvases got about and, amusingly enough, heightened the Byrds' popularity. The Anglo-Saxon public is both to take its art neat, preferring it coated with a little sentiment. It now became accepted that Stefan's genius was due to his wife, whose love had lighted the torch of inspiration.

"Ah, Mr. Byrd," Miss Mason had summed up the popular view, in one of her rare romantic moments, "the love of a good woman--!" Stefan had looked completely vague at this remark, and Mary had burst out laughing.

"Why, Sparrow," for so, to Miss Mason's delight, she had named her, "don't be Tennysonian, as Stefan would say. It was Stefan's power to feel love, and not mine to call it out, that painted the Danae," and she looked at him with proud tenderness.

But the Sparrow was unconvinced. "You can't tell me. If 'twas all in him, why didn't some other girl over in Paris call it out long ago?"

"Lots tried," grinned Stefan, with his cheeky-boy expression.

"Ain't he terrible," Miss Mason sighed, smiling. She adored Mary's husband, but consistently disapproved of him.

Try as she would, Mary failed to shake her friends' estimate of her share in the family success. It became the fashion to regard her as a muse, and she, who had felt oppressed by Stefan's lover-like deification, now found her friends, too, conspiring to place her on a pedestal. Essentially simple and modest, she suffered real discomfort from the cult of adoration that surrounded her. Coming from a British community which she felt had underestimated her, she now found herself made too much of. A smaller woman would have grown vain amid so much admiration; Mary only became inwardly more humble, while outwardly carrying her honors with laughing deprecation.

For some time after the night of Constance's reception, Stefan had shown every evidence of contentment, but as the winter dragged into a cold and slushy March he began to have recurrent moods of his restless irritability. By this time Mary was moving heavily; she could no longer keep brisk pace with him in his tramps up the Avenue, but walked more slowly and for shorter distances. She no longer sprang swiftly from her chair or ran to fetch him a needed tool; her every movement was matronly. But she was so well, so entirely normal, as practically to be unconscious of a change to which her husband was increasingly alive.

Another source of Stefan's dissatisfaction lay in the progress of his Demeter. This picture showed the G.o.ddess enthroned under the shade of a tree, beyond which spread harvest fields in brilliant sunlight. At her feet a naked boy, brown from the sun, played with a pile of red and golden fruits. In the distance maids and youths were dancing. The G.o.ddess sat back drowsily, her eyelids drooping, her hands and arms relaxed over her chair. She had called all this richness into being, and now in the heat of the day she rested, brooding over the fecund earth.

So far, the composition was masterly, but the tones lacked the necessary depth; they were vivid where they should have been warm, and he felt the deficiency without yet having been able to remedy it.