  Stefan's moods were not always calm. He had his hours of fierce rebellion, when he felt he could not endure another moment with his deadened carcass; when, without life, it seemed so much better to die. He had days of passionate longing for the world, for love, for everything he had lost. Mary fell into the habit of borrowing the Farradays' car when she saw such a mood approaching, and sending Stefan for long drives alone. The rushing flight seldom failed to carry him beyond the reach of his black mood. Returning, he would plunge into work, and the next day would find him calm and smiling once again. He suffered much pain from his back, but this he bore with admirable patience. “It's nothing,” he would say, “compared to the black devils.” Stefan's courage was enormously fortified by the success of his drawings, which created little less than a sensation. Reproductions of them appeared for some weeks in The Household Review, and were recopied everywhere. The originals were exhibited by Constantine in November. “Here,” wrote one of the most distinguished critics in New York, himself a painter of repute, “we have work which outranks even Mr. Byrd's celebrated DanaË, and in my judgment far surpasses any of the artist's other achievements. I have watched the development of this young American genius with the keenest interest. I placed him in the first rank as a technichian, but his work—with the exception of the DanaË—appeared to me to lack substance and insight. It was brilliant, but too spectacular. Even his DanaË, though on a surprising inspirational plane, had a quality high rather than profound, I doubted if Mr. Byrd had the stuff of which great art is made, but after seeing his war drawings, I confess myself mistaken. If I were to sum up my impression of them I should say that on the battlefield Mr. Byrd has discovered the one thing his work lacked—soul.” Stefan read this eulogy with a humorous grin. “I expect the fellow's right,” he said. “I don't think my soul was as strong on wings in the old days as my brush was. Without joking, though,” he went on, suddenly grave, “I don't know if there is such a thing as a soul, but if there is, such splendid ones were being spilled out there that I think, perhaps, Mary, I may have picked a bit of one up.” “Dearest,” said Mary, with a kiss of comprehension, “I'm so proud of you. You are great, a great artist, and a great spirit.” And she kissed him again, her eyes shining. If the Byrdsnest was proud in November of its distinguished head, it positively bristled with importance in December, when Constantine telephoned that the trustees of the Metropolitan were negotiating for Stefan's whole series. This possibility had already been spoken of in the press, though the family had not dared hope too much from the suggestion. The Museum bought the drawings, and Stefan took his place as one of America's great artists. “Mary, I'm so glad I can be useful again, as well as ornamental,” he grinned, presenting to her with a flourish a delightfully substantial cheque. His courage, and his happiness in his success, were an increasing joy to Mary. She blossomed in her pride of him, and the old glowing look came back to her face. Only one thing—besides her anxiety for his health—troubled her. With all his tenderness to her, and his renewed love, he still remained a stranger to his children. He seemed proud of their healthy beauty, and glad of Mary's happiness in them; but their nearness bored and tired him, and they, quick to perceive this, became hopelessly unresponsive in his presence. Ellie would back solemnly away from the approaching chair, and Rosamond would hang mute upon her mother's shoulder. “It's strange,” Mary said to the Sparrow, who was quick to notice any failure to appreciate her adored charges; “they're his own, and yet he hasn't the key to them. I suppose it's because he's a genius, and too far apart from ordinary people to understand just little human babies.” The thought stirred faintly the memory of her old wound.
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