The studio house-warming was a great event, in artist circles, and inspired Jane to announce a day at home.

"Jane, what has come over you? I used to think, when we lived in the old studio, that you were the most indifferent person, socially, that I ever met," said Jerry.

"I apologize, Jerry, but you've got to get used to a new me. I want people to come here; I want them to think it is a happy, refreshing place to come to."

"Jane, have you any regular seasons for changing personalities? I have gotten used to two totally different beings since I have known you, and now you present me with a third!"

"Like being married to a chameleon, isn't it?"

"No, for a chameleon takes its colour from its surroundings, but you don't."

"No; I take the colour of my interior," she laughed.

"You'd better see a doctor if your interior changes colour every few months."

"I've had all the big experiences of my life in the last two years. Of course I'm not the same person. If marriage and motherhood leave a woman unchanged, she is made of marble, or tin."

"You even look different, Jane."

"Why not, if I am different?"

"You are beautiful and spirited. You used to be a trifle cold."

"You think I'm more human now, Jerry."

"You've come to life, Jane. Whom are you going to have at your parties?"

"All sorts, uptown people, downtown people, the ones who do things and the ones who buy things."

"Sounds good. Do I officiate throughout the ceremony?"

"Of course, Jerry. I couldn't do it without you."

"Why not?" curiously.

"You have the real gift of making people happy; I'm only the assistant."

"Jane, do I make you happy?" he asked suddenly, directly.

She looked at him seriously a second before she answered:

"I don't know— I hadn't thought about it."

"Don't you think it's important to be happy, Jane?"

"Why, yes, but I think it just happens, doesn't it? You cannot make it happen. It is like courtesy, or spirituality, it results from everything in you, your whole habit of life and thought."

"Does it? I thought it was something you went after, and got," said Jerry.

"Like a box of sweets," she smiled.

"Like a box of sweets, and then you ran the risk of stomachache."

"I call that satisfaction, not happiness."

"What is happiness to you, Jane?"

"A miracle," she evaded.

From the very first, the days at home were a success. It is difficult to say just what constitutes hospitality. One hostess accomplishes it without effort; another, with the same material equipment, fails utterly. Jane managed it. There was an air of distinction, which in no way interfered with the comfort and informality of her guests. At most studio teas, people smoke, and loll about, but there was no hint of Bohemianism, in that sense of the word, at Jane's parties.

Mrs. Brendon always came, bringing her friends with her. Martin Christiansen brought all the distinguished men and women who came to New York during the winter to the Paxtons. It was noised about that you always met famous people there, so the popularity of the stable-studio was established.

One afternoon found an English poet, a French actress, and a prominent opera singer among their guests. Jerry watched Jane handle them with interest. She took them as a matter of course, saw that they met the people who would entertain them. She treated them like human beings, not like exhibitions.

"Bobs, Signor Travetti desires tea and amusement," she said, presenting the famous tenor.

"I guarantee the first, because Mrs. Paxton supplies that, but the second...." she lifted despairing eyes.

"I take ma chances," laughed the man, dropping into the chair beside her.

"Jerry, come and look after Mademoiselle de Monde," Jane said to him.

"What shall I talk to her about?"

"About herself. Make love to her," ordered his wife.

"Madame Paxton is veree beautiful, veree distinguÉe," his companion said, as Jane swept away from them.

"She is," said Jerry, with conviction.

Mrs. Brendon arrived shortly and he joined her.

"Jerry, how do you get all these people here?"

"I don't know. They can't possibly come for tea and cakes, so it must be Jane."

"She is a wonder! Did you know all this about her when you married her?"

"Certainly," lied Jerry.

"Everybody admires her. Is that the English poet over there?"

"Yes, there are heaps of celebrities here to-day. I will gather in some for you," he laughed.

Just then Althea entered the room and he almost lost control of his features. He saw her swift glance of appraisal as she went to Jane, who greeted her as if they had met yesterday.

"What a beautiful studio, Mrs. Paxton," she chattered to cover the embarrassment of the moment.

"Yes, we like it. Jerry, here is an old friend of yours," Jane said.

"How do you do?" he remarked.

"How do you do, Strange Man?" she exclaimed.

Jane moved away.

"It's beautiful, Jerry. You are getting on."

"Yes, thanks be."

"I hear of these teas of yours everywhere."

"They are Jane's teas; I have no credit for them."

"I suppose Mr. Christiansen supplies her celebrities."

"Is he a celebrity agent?"

"He knows everybody, of course, and his devotion to your wife is the talk of the town."

"Mrs. Paxton seems to act as a magnet to celebrities. She needs no assistance," he said, ignoring the end of her remark.

"How fortunate!"

"Are you having a good time this winter?" he asked, to change the subject.

"I should think you would scarcely ask me that."

"Why shouldn't I ask you?"

"You know how miserable you've made me."

"I have? What are you talking about?"

"Everybody talks about it."

"About what?"

"The way you dropped me."

"But I didn't; you dropped me."

"No one believes that. They think your wife is jealous and made you give me up."

"I don't know what you mean by 'give you up.'"

"Last winter and spring you were always with me."

"I'm awfully sorry if I damaged your reputation in any way."

"It isn't only my reputation you damaged, Jerry."

"Look here, Althea, this is foolish kind of talk for us to be indulging in. There was never anything between us but a mild flirtation, and we both know it."

"How cruel men are!" she replied tragically.

"Aren't they?" he laughed. "You ought to get them all transported to Mars; then you would have a perfect world, for woman's delectation. You know Mr. Chatfield, don't you, Miss Morton? Chat, she holds a brief on man's inhumanity to woman. Jane is calling me, so I leave you as my proxy. Defend us, Chat!"

He bowed and sauntered off. As he came to the tea table Bobs remarked:

"I see dear Althy is with us. Some nerve—what?"

"Oh, no—a forgiving nature. You never did her justice."

"Go bring her over here. I owe her one or two."

"No, thanks. I don't want to turn Jane's party into a battlefield."

"Never fear. Althy is for trench warfare, she never fights in the open."

"Admire her, don't you, Bobs?"

"Vawstly!"

He moved on to another group, chatting for a few seconds. Then he joined Jane, the poet, and Christiansen, who were in earnest discussion. Jane was speaking.

"I think poetry is like religion, we must get it back into our lives, as a working principle, before it can count with us again. Both have grown so stiff with tradition and Sunday usage that we must work them into the very stuff of our lives to make them real."

"Yes, that is just the case, Mrs. Paxton," the poet agreed. "There is an outcry against the modern, radical poet, but it is because the dear Philistine forgets that Shelley's message and work were as advanced in his time as ours are to-day."

"You will find Mrs. Paxton an omniverous reader of poetry," said Christiansen, "a reader with the appreciation of a poet."

Jerry moved on, irritated in some subtle way at what he named Christiansen's showman manner of exhibiting Jane's good taste. Couldn't the Englishman find out that she had some ideas without Christiansen's help? He, her own husband, had never heard her speak of poetry. How did Christiansen know so much of her interests?

The more he thought of it, the more it annoyed him. Christiansen's manner with Jane implied a life-long intimacy. What, in point of fact, did he, Jerry, know about Jane? He had never asked any questions about her people or her past, and she had vouchsafed no information. How did he know when or how she had met this man, what he had been to her? In the haste of their mad marriage, it had not mattered about her past. He intended that she should have only a future with him. He smiled grimly at that. It looked now, as if he might have only a future with Jane!

But after a year and a half of marriage, what did he know about her? About her thoughts, her interests, even her habits? Where did she go on these daily, three-hour absences. Did she meet Christiansen then? He thrust the idea out of his mind to find it tapping for admission again. What kind of egotist and fool had he been, not to learn to know this woman with whom he lived? There was not a person in the room who did not know her as well as he did. Bobs knew her better. He went over to the table, where she presided.

"You look as if you'd rather eat me, than amuse me," she remarked.

"Bobs, would you consider Jane an intellectual woman?" he inquired abruptly.

"Intellectual? Let me see. She is the best-read woman I know. She's a shark on modern poetry; she has a sound acquaintance with the principles of art; she's seen all the pictures and statuary in New York, and has ideas about them; she has looked into the labour question for women. I might not call her intellectual, but I'd call her up-to-the-minute in modern thought."

"Good Lord!" said Jerry.

"Oh, you don't know the first living thing about Jane. The baby knows more about her."

"You needn't rub it in."

"She's the biggest person in this room, is Jane."

"What started you on this Jane worship, Bobs?"

"Something happened to me that knocked the very foundations out from under my life for a while," she answered him directly. "I would have killed myself if it had not been for Jane."

"Did she know what was the matter with you?"

"Yes, but she pretended not to know whom it was I cared for."

"She knew that, too?"

"All the time. She never forced anything on me, she just stood by, and helped me weather it. Last summer she put the finishing touches on my cure. I love her as I never loved any human being."

"I didn't know about this."

"Of course not. You were too busy with Althea to notice what Jane was making of the pieces you had left of me. Sort of poetic justice, after all."

"Good heavens, Bobs, don't!"

"Not just the place to discuss our stormy past," she laughed.

Some one demanded tea, so Jerry escaped. He felt as if he had spent the afternoon gathering information about Jane, focussing his entire attention upon her. He had discovered his wife to be a strange and rather powerful personality, reacting on all the people about her, including himself.

He did an odd thing, then. He could not have explained the impulse to himself. But he left the party and walked upstairs into the nursery, where Mrs. Biggs guarded his son. The baby was awake, and Jerry sat down beside him, staring into his face, trying to penetrate through him, into the depths of that opaque being who was his mother.