The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively.

“Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?” he asked rather nervously.

“Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?” she answered, in a voice carefully controlled.

“You don't mean it!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so long.”

“Hadn't you?”

He fidgeted. “Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?”

“I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but you were out.”

“Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little.” He was rocking from one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.

“Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure—I can't sit about this cottage all the time.”

“I don't think I've asked you to do that.”

“You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now.”

She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so unreasonable a defense.

“Well, anyway,” he said, flinging himself on the sofa, “here I am, so let's make the best of it. Tea ready?”

“It's just coming.”

“That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire.”

“You say this will be your best?” asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed.

“Well,” he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, “perhaps not better than the DanaË in one sense—it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type—she's quite an inspiration.”

“And I'm not, any more,” Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice.

“Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort of picture.” The assurance sounded perfunctory.

“Thank goodness, here comes the tea,” he exclaimed as Lily entered with the tray. “Hullo, Lily; how goes it?”

“Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've shorely missed you,” she answered, with something less than her usual wholehearted smile.

“Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned,” he grinned. “Mary, you haven't answered my question yet—when are you coming in to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to you.”

She flushed. “I can't come, Stefan; it's impossible to leave Baby so long.”

“Well, bring him with you.”

“That wouldn't be possible, either; it would disturb his sleep, and upset him.”

“There you are!” he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. “I can't work down here, and you can't come to town—how can I help seeming to neglect you? Look here”—he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup for more—“if you're lonely, why not move back to the city—then you could keep your eye on me!” and he grinned again.

For some time Mary had feared this suggestion—she had not yet discussed with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her hands together nervously.

“Stefan, do you really want me to move back?”

“I want you to do whatever will make you happier,” he temporized.

“If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't believe we should have much more time together than now.”

“Neither do I,” he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she was quick to catch.

“On the other hand,” she went on, “this place is far better for Baby, and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer.”

“Of course I do,” he answered cheerfully. “I should hate to give it up, and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the time—my work has got to come first, you know.”

“Yes, of course, dear,” said Mary, wistfully, “and I think it would be a mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me.”

“Of course I want you, Beautiful.”

He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.

In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of his presence.

Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall.

“Hello, Byrd,” he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room door as he came in; “down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of our friend Twinkle-Toes?”

Stefan's eyebrows went up. “Do you mean Miss Berber?”

“Yes,” said McEwan, with an aggravating smile, as he devoured a slice of cake. “We're all expecting another ten-strike. Are you depicting her as a toe-shaker or a sartorial artist?”

“Really, Wallace,” protested Mary, who had grown quite intimate with McEwan, “you are utterly incorrigible in your Yankee vein—you respect no one.”

“I respect the President of these United States,” said he solemnly, raising an imaginary hat.

“That's more than I do,” snorted Stefan; “a pompous Puritan!”

“For goodness' sake, don't start him on politics, Wallace,” said Mary; “he has a contempt for every public man in America except Roosevelt and Bill Heywood.”

“So I have,” replied Stefan; “they are the only two with a spark of the picturesque, or one iota of originality.”

“You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on a cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring grape-juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background. Label it 'Morituri salutamus'—I bet it would sell,” said McEwan hopefully.

Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. “Why don't you go into vaudeville, McEwan?” he frowned.

“Solely out of consideration for the existing stars,” McEwan sighed, putting down his cup and rising. “Well, chin music hath charms, but I must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty needs stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the latest masterpiece. So long,” and he grinned himself out before Stefan's rising irritation had a chance to explode.

“Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?” he demanded, almost before the front door was shut.

“Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him. I admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you.”

“Teasing me!” Stefan scoffed; “it's like an elephant teasing a fly. He obliterates me.”

“Well, don't be an old crosspatch,” she smiled, determined now they were alone again to make the most of him.

“You are a good sort, Mary,” he said, smiling in reply; “it's restful to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?” He stretched luxuriously on the sofa.

She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa, the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. “He must be very tired, poor boy,” she thought.

Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room, and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time, and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet.

As they went up to bed Mary turned wistfully to him.

“Wouldn't you like to look at Elliston? You haven't seen him for a long time.”

“Bless me, I suppose I haven't—let's take a peep at him.”

Together they bent over the cradle. “Why, he's looking quite human. I think he must have grown!” his father whispered, apparently surprised. “Does he make much noise at night nowadays, Mary?”

“No, hardly any. He just whimpers at about two o'clock, and I get up and nurse him. Then he sleeps till after six.”

“If you don't mind, then,” said Stefan, “I think I will sleep with you to-night. I feel as if it would rest me.”

“Of course, dearest.” She felt herself blushing. Was she really going to be loved again? She smiled happily at him.

When they were in bed Stefan curled up childishly, and putting one arm about her, fell asleep almost instantly, his head upon her shoulder. Mary lay, too happy for sleep, listening to his quiet breathing, until her shoulder ached and throbbed under his head. She would not move for fear of waking him, and remained wide-eyed and motionless until her baby's voice called to her.

Then, with infinite care, she slipped away, her arm and shoulder numb, but her heart lighter than it had been for many weeks.

She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into bed. Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an arm about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at hand, warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and to-night she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell at last, with all the dreaming house, asleep.