Miss Mason was folding her knitting, and Mary sat in the firelight sewing diligently. Stefan was out in search of paints.

“I tell you what 'tis, Mary Elliston Byrd,” said Miss Mason. “It's 'bout time you saw a doctor. My mother was a physician-homeopath, one of the first that ever graduated. Take my advice, and have a woman.”

“I'd much rather,” said Mary.

“I should say!” agreed the other. “I never was one to be against the men, but oh, my—” she threw up her bony little hands—“if there's one thing I never could abide it's a man doctor for woman's work. I s'pose I got started that way by what my mother told me of the medical students in her day. Anyway, it hardly seems Christian to me for a woman to go to a man doctor.”

Mary laughed. “I wish my dear old Dad could have heard you. I remember he once refused to meet a woman doctor in consultation. She had to leave Lindum—no one would employ her. I was a child at the time, but even then it seemed all wrong to me.”

“My dear, you thank the Lord you live under the Stars and Stripes,” rejoined Miss Mason, who conceived of England as a place beyond the reach of liberty for either women or men.

“I shall live under the Tricolor if Stefan has his way,” smiled Mary.

“Child,” said her visitor, putting on her hat, “don't say it. Your husband's an elegant man—I admire him—but don't you ever let me hear he doesn't love his country.”

“I'm certainly learning to love it myself,” Mary discreetly evaded.

“You're too fine a woman not to,” retorted the other. “Now I tell you. I've been treated for my chest at the Women's and Children's Hospital. There's one little doctor there's cute's she can be. I'm goin' to get you her address. You've got to treat yourself right. Good-bye,” nodded the little woman; and was gone in her usual brisk fashion.

It was the day of Mr. Farraday's expected call, and Miss Mason had hardly departed when the bell rang. Mary hastily put away her sewing and pressed the electric button which opened the downstairs door to visitors. She wished Stefan were back again to help her entertain the editor, and greeted him with apologies for her husband's absence. She was anxious that this man, whom she instinctively liked and trusted, should see her husband at his best. Seating Farraday in the Morris chair, she got him some tea, while he looked about with interest.

The two big pictures, “Tempest,” and “Pursuit,” now hung stretched but unframed, on either side of the room. Farraday's gaze kept returning to them.

“Those are his Beaux Arts pictures; extraordinary, aren't they?” said Mary, following his eyes.

“They certainly are. Remarkably powerful. I understand there is another, though, that he has only just finished?”

“Yes, it's on the easel, covered, you see,” she answered. “Stefan must have the honor of showing you that himself.”

“I wish you would tell me, Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, changing the subject, “how you happened to write those verses? Had you been brought up with children, younger brothers and sisters, for instance?”

Mary shook her head. “No, I'm the younger of two. But I've always loved children more than anything in the world.” She blushed, and Farraday, watching her, realized for the first time what a certain heightened radiance in her face betokened. He smiled very sweetly at her. She in her turn saw that he knew, and was glad. His manner seemed to enfold her in a mantle of comfort and understanding.

As they finished their tea, Stefan arrived. He entered gaily, greeted Farraday, and fell upon the tea, consuming two cups and several slices of bread and butter with the rapid concentration he gave to all his acts.

That finished, he leaped up and made for the easel.

“Now, Farraday,” he cried, “you are going to see one of the finest modern paintings in the world. Why should I be modest about it? I'm not. It's a masterpiece—Mary's and mine!”

Mary wished he had not included her. Though determined to overcome the feeling, she still shrank from having the picture shown in her presence. Farraday placed himself in position, and Stefan threw back the cloth, watching the other's face with eagerness. The effect surpassed his expectation. The editor flushed, then gradually became quite pale. After a minute he turned rather abruptly from the canvas and faced Stefan.

“You are right, Mr. Byrd,” he said, in an obviously controlled voice, “it is a masterpiece. It will make your name and probably your fortune. It is one of the most magnificent modern paintings I have ever seen.”

Mary beamed.

“Your praise honors me,” said Stefan, genuinely delighted.

“I'm sorry I have to run away now,” Farraday continued almost hurriedly. “You know what a busy man I am.” He shook hands with Stefan. “A thousand congratulations,” he said. “Good-bye, Mrs. Byrd; I enjoyed my cup of tea with you immensely.” The hand he offered her was cold; he hardly looked up. “You will let me have some more stories, won't you? I shall count on them. Good-bye again—my warmest congratulations to you both,” and he took his departure with a suddenness only saved from precipitation by the deliberate poise of his whole personality.

“I'm sorry he had to go so soon,” said Mary, a little blankly.

“What got into the man?” Stefan wondered, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “He was leisurely enough till he had seen the picture. I tell you what!” he exclaimed. “Did you notice his expression when he looked at it? I believe the chap is in love with you!” He turned his most impish and mischievous face to her.

Mary blushed with annoyance. “How perfectly ridiculous, Stefan! Please don't say such things.”

“But he is!” He danced about the room, hugely entertained by his idea. “Don't you see, that is why he is so eager about your verses, and why he was so bouleversÉ by the DanaË! Poor chap, I feel quite sorry for him. You must be nice to him.”

Mary was thoroughly annoyed. “Please don't talk like that,” she reiterated. “You don't know how it hurts when you are so flippant. If you suggest such a reason for his acceptance of my work, of course I can't send in any more.” Tears of vexation were in her eyes.

“Darling, don't be absurd,” he responded, teasingly. “Why shouldn't he be in love with you? I expect everybody to be so. As for your verses, of course he wouldn't take them if they weren't good; I didn't mean that.”

“Then why did you say it?” she asked, unplacated.

“Dearest!” and he kissed her. “Don't be dignified; be Aphrodite again, not Pallas. I never mean anything I say, except when I say I love you!”

“Love isn't the only thing, Stefan,” she replied.

“Isn't it? What else is there? I don't know,” and he jumped on the table and sat smiling there with his head on one side, like a naughty little boy facing his schoolmaster.

She wanted to answer “comprehension,” but was silent, feeling the uselessness of further words. How expect understanding of a common human hurt from this being, who alternately appeared in the guise of a god and a gamin? She remembered the old tale of the maiden wedded to the beautiful and strange elf-king. Was the legend symbolic of that mysterious thread—call it genius or what you will—that runs its erratic course through humanity's woof, marring yet illuminating the staid design, never straightened with its fellow-threads, never tied, and never to be followed to its source? With the feeling of having for an instant held in her hand the key to the riddle of his nature, Mary went to Stefan and ran her fingers gently through his hair.

“Child,” she said, smiling at him rather sadly; and “Beautiful,” he responded, with a prompt kiss.

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