He was delighted with his drawings. Mary, who was beginning to develop civic pride, told him they were goblinesque.

"Clever girl, that's why I like them," he replied.

Late in October Stefan sold his pastoral, though only for seventy-five dollars. This disappointed him greatly. He was anxious to repay his debt to Adolph, but would not accept the loan of it from his wife. Mary renewed her determination to be helpful, and sent one of her old stories to a magazine, but without success. She had no one to advise her as to likely markets, and posted her ma.n.u.script to two more unsuitable publications, receiving it back with a printed rejection slip.

Her fourth attempt, however, was rewarded by a note from the editor which gave her much encouragement. Children's stories, he explained, were outside the scope of his magazine, but he thought highly of Mrs.

Byrd's ma.n.u.script, and advised her to submit it to one of the women's papers--he named several--where it might be acceptable. Mary was delighted by this note, and read it to Stefan.

"Splendid!" he cried, "I had no idea you had brought any stories over with you. Guarded oracle!" he added, teasingly.

"Oracles don't tell secrets unless they are asked," she rejoined.

"True. And now I do ask. Give me the whole secret--read me the story,"

he exclaimed, promptly putting away his brushes, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself, eagerly attentive, into the Morris chair.

Mary prepared to comply, gladly, if a little nervously. She had been somewhat hurt at his complete lack of interest in her writing; now she was anxious for his approbation. Seated in the rocking chair she read aloud the little story in her clear low voice. When she had finished she found Stefan regarding her with an expression affectionate but somewhat quizzical.

"Mary, you have almost a maternal air, sitting there reading so lovingly about a baby. It's a new aspect--the rocker helps. I've never quite liked that chair--it reminds me of Michigan."

Mary had flushed painfully, but he did not notice it in the half light of the fire. It had grown dark as she read.

"But the story, Stefan?" she asked, her tone obviously hurt. He jumped up and kissed her, all contrition.

"Darling, it sounded beautiful in your voice, and I'm sure it is. In fact I know it is. But I simply don't understand that type of fiction; I have no key to it. So my mind wandered a little. I listened to the lovely sounds your voice made, and watched the firelight on your hair.

You were like a Dutch interior--quite a new aspect, as I said--and I got interested in that."

Mary was abashed and disappointed. For the first time she questioned Stefan's generosity, contrasting his indifference with her own absorbed interest in his work. She knew her muse trivial by comparison with his, but she loved it, and ached for the stimulus his praise would bring.

Beneath the wound to her craftsmanship lay another, in which the knife was turning, but she would not face its implication. Nevertheless it oppressed her throughout the evening, so that Stefan commented on her silence. That night as she lay awake listening to his easy breathing, for the first time since her marriage her pillow was dampened by tears.

V

In the nest morning's sun Mary's premonitions appeared absurd. Stefan waked in high spirits, and planned a morning's work on his drawings of the city, while Mary, off duty as a model, decided to take her story in person to the office of one of the women's papers. As she crossed the Square and walked up lower Fifth Avenue she had never felt more buoyant.

The sun was brilliant, and a cool breeze whipped color into her cheeks.

The office to which she was bound was on the north side of Union Square.

Crossing Broadway, she was held up half way over by the traffic. As she waited for an opening her attention was attracted by the singular antics of a large man, who seemed to be performing some kind of a ponderous fling upon the curbstone opposite. A moment more and she grasped that the dance was a signal to her, and that the man was none other than McEwan, sprucely tailored and trimmed in the American fashion, but unmistakable for all that. She crossed the street and shook hands with him warmly, delighted to see any one connected with the romantic days of her voyage. McEwan's smile seemed to b.u.t.tress his whole face with teeth, but to her amazement he greeted her without a trace of Scotch accent.

"Well," said he, pumping both her hands up and down in his enormous fist, "here's Mrs. Byrd! That's simply great. I've been wondering where I could locate you both. Ought to have nosed you out before now, but my job keeps me busy. I'm with a magazine house, you know--advertising manager."

"I didn't know," answered Mary, whose head was whirling.

"Ah," he grinned at her, "you're surprised at my metamorphosis. I allow myself a month every year of my native heath, heather-mixture, and burr--I like to do the thing up brown. The rest of the time I'm a Gothamite, of necessity. Some time, when I've made my pile, I shall revert for keeps, and settle down into a kilt and a castle."

Much amused by this unsuspected histrionic gift, Mary walked on beside McEwan. He was full of interest in her affairs, and she soon confided to him the object of her expedition.

"You're just the man to advise me, being on a paper," she said, and added laughing, "I should have been terrified of you if I'd known that on the ship."

"Then I'm glad I kept it dark. You say your stuff is for children? Where were you going to?"

She told him.

"A woman's the boss of that shop. She's O.K. and so's her paper, but her prices aren't high." He considered. "Better come to our shop. We run two monthlies and a weekly, one critical, one household, one entirely for children. The boss is a great pal of mine. Name of Farraday--an American. Come on!" And he wheeled her abruptly back the way they had come. She followed unresistingly, intensely amused at his quick, jerky sentences and crisp manner--the very ant.i.thesis of his former Scottish heaviness.

"Mr. McEwan, what an actor you would have made!"

She smiled up at him as she hurried at his side. He looked about with pretended caution, then stooped to her ear.

"Hoots, la.s.sie!" he whispered, with a solemn wink.

"Stefan will never believe this!" she said, bubbling with laughter.

At the door of a building close to the corner where they had met he stopped, and for a moment his manner, though not his voice, a.s.sumed its erstwhile weightiness.

"Never mind!" he held up an admonishing forefinger. "I do the talking.

What do you know about business? Nothing!" His hand swept away possible objections. "I know your work." She gasped, but the finger was up again, solemnly wagging. "And I say it's good. How many words?" he half snapped.

"Three thousand five hundred," she answered.

"Then I say, two hundred dollars--not a cent less--and what I say _goes_, see?" The finger shot out at her, menacing.

"I leave it to you, Mr. McEwan," she answered meekly, and followed him to the lift, dazed. "This," she said to herself, "simply is not happening!" She felt like Alice in Wonderland.

They shot up many stories, and emerged into a large office furnished with a switch-board, benches, tables, desks, pictures, and office boys.

A ceaseless stenographic click resounded from behind an eight-foot part.i.tion; the telephone girl seemed to be engaged conjointly on a novel and a dozen plugs; the office boys were diligent with their chewing gum; all was activity. Mary felt at a loss, but the great McEwan, towering over the switchboard like a Juggernaut, instantly compelled the operator's eyes from their multiple distractions. "Good morning, Mr.

McEwan--Spring one-O-two-four," she greeted him.

"'Morning. T'see Mr. Farraday," he economized.

"M'st Farraday--M'st McEwan an' lady t'see you. Yes. M'st Farraday'll see you right away. 'Sthis three-one hundred? Hold th' line, please,"

said the operator in one breath, connecting two calls and waving McEwan forward simultaneously. Mary followed him down a long corridor of doors to one which he opened, throwing back a second door within it.

They entered a sunny room, quiet, and with an air of s.p.a.cious order.

Facing them was a large mahogany table, almost bare, save for a vase which held yellow roses. Flowers grew in a window box and another vase of white roses stood on a book shelf. Mary's eyes flew to the flowers even before she observed the man who rose to greet them from beyond the table. He was very tall, with the lean New England build. His long, bony face was unhandsome save for the eyes and mouth, which held an expression of great sweetness. He shook hands with a kindly smile, and Mary took an instant liking to him, feeling In his presence the ease that comes of cla.s.s-fellowship. He looked, she thought, something under forty years old.

"I am fortunate. You find me in a breathing spell," he was saying.

"He's the busiest man in New York, but he always has time," McEwan explained, and, indeed, nothing could have been more unhurried than the whole atmosphere of both man and room. Mary said so.

"Yes, I must have quiet or I can't work," Farraday replied. "My windows face the back, you see, and my walls are double; I doubt if there's a quieter office in New York."

"Nor a more charming, I should think," added Mary, looking about at the restful tones of the room, with its landscapes, its beautifully chosen old furniture, and its flowers.

"The owner thanks you," he acknowledged, with his kindly smile.