True to her word, Constance arranged a reception in the Byrds' honor, at which they were to meet Felicity Berber. The promise of this encounter reconciled Stefan to the affair, and he was moreover enthusiastically looking forward to Mary's appearance in her new gown. This had arrived, and lay swathed in tissue paper in its box. In view of their change of fortune they had, in paying the account of seventy-five dollars, concocted a little note to Miss Berber, hoping she would now reconsider her offer, and render them a bill for her design. This note, written and signed by Mary in her upright English hand, brought forth a characteristic reply. On black paper and in vermilion ink arrived two lines of what Mary at first took to be Egyptian hieroglyphics. Studied from different angles, these yielded at last a single sentence: “A gift is a gift, and repays itself.” This was followed by a signature traveling perpendicularly down the page in Chinese fashion. It was outlined in an oblong of red ink, but was itself written in green, the capitals being supplied with tap-roots extending to the base of each name. Mary tossed the letter over to Stefan with a smile. He looked at it judicially.

“There's draughtsmanship in that,” he said; “she might have made an etcher. It's drawing, but it's certainly not handwriting.”

On the evening of the party Stefan insisted on helping Mary to dress. Together they opened the great green box and spread its contents on the bed. The Creator of Raiment had not done things by halves. In addition to the gown, she had supplied a wreath of pale white and gold metals, representing two ears of wheat arranged to meet in a point over the brow, and a pair of gilded shoes made on the sandal plan, with silver-white buckles. Pinned to the gown was a printed green slip, reading “No corsets, petticoats or jewelry may be worn with this garb.”

The dress was of heavy gold tissue, magnificently draped in generous classic folds. It left the arms bare, the drapery being fastened on either shoulder with great brooches of white metal, reproduced, as Stefan at once recognized, from Greek models. Along all the edges of the drapery ran a border of ears of wheat, embroidered in deep gold and pale silver. Mary, who had hitherto only peeped at the gown, felt quite excited when she saw it flung across the bed.

“Oh, Stefan, I do think it will be becoming,” she cried, her cheeks bright pink. She had never dreamed of owning such a dress.

He was enchanted. “It's a work of art. Very few women could wear it, but on you—! Well, it's worthy of you, Beautiful.”

During the dressing he made her quite nervous by his exact attention to every detail. The arrangement of her hair and the precise position of the wreath had to be tried and tried again, but the result justified him.

“Olympian Deity,” he cried, “I must kneel to you!” And so he did, gaily adoring, with a kiss for the hem of her robe. They started in the highest spirits, Stefan correct this time in an immaculate evening suit which Mary had persuaded him to order. As they prepared to enter the drawing room he whispered, “You'll be a sensation. I'm dying to see their faces.”

“Don't make me nervous,” she whispered back.

By nature entirely without self-consciousness, she had become very sensitive since the DanaË publicity. But her nervousness only heightened her color, and as with her beautiful walk she advanced into the room there was an audible gasp from every side. Constance pounced upon her.

“You perfectly superb creature! You ought to have clouds rolling under your feet. There, I can't express myself. Come and receive homage. Mr. Byrd, you're the luckiest man on earth—I hope you deserve it all—but then of course no man could. Mary, here are two friends of yours—Mr. Byrd, come and be presented to Felicity.”

Farraday and McEwan had advanced toward them and immediately formed the nucleus of a group which gathered about Mary. Stefan followed his hostess across the room to a green sofa, on which, cigarette in hand, reclined Miss Berber, surrounded by a knot of interested admirers.

“Yes, Connie,” that lady murmured, with the ghost of a smile, “I've met Mr. Byrd. He brought his wife to the Studio.” She extended a languid hand to Stefan, who bowed over it.

“Ah! I might have known you had a hand in that effect,” Constance exclaimed, looking across the room toward Mary.

“Of course you might,” the other sighed, following her friend's eyes. “It's perfect, I think; don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” and she actually rose from the sofa to obtain a better view.

“Absolutely,” answered Stefan, riveted in his turn upon her.

Miss Berber was clad in black tulle, so transparent as barely to obscure her form. Sleeves she had none. A trifle of gauze traveled over one shoulder, leaving the other bare save for a supporting strap of tiny scarlet beads. Her triple skirt was serrated like the petals of a black carnation, and outlined with the same minute beads. Her bodice could scarcely be said to exist, so deep was its V. From her ears long ornaments of jet depended, and a comb in scarlet bead-work ran wholly across one side of her head. A flower of the same hue and workmanship trembled from the point of her corsage. She wore no rings, but her nails were reddened, and her sleek black hair and scarlet lips completed the chromatic harmony. The whole effect was seductive, but so crisp as to escape vulgarity.

“I must paint you, Miss Berber,” was Stefan's comment.

“All the artists say that.” She waved a faint expostulation.

Her hands, he thought, had the whiteness and consistency of a camelia.

“All the artists are not I, however,” he answered with a smiling shrug.

“Greek meets Greek,” thought Constance, amused, turning away to other guests.

“I admit that.” Miss Berber lit another cigarette. “I have seen your DanaË. The people who have painted me have been fools. Obvious—treating me like an advertisement for cold cream.”

She breathed a sigh, and sank again to the sofa. Her lids drooped as if in weariness of such banalities. Stefan sat beside her, the manner of both eliminating the surrounding group.

“One must have subtlety, must one not?” she murmured.

How subtle she was, he thought; how mysterious, in spite of her obvious posing! He could not even tell whether she was interested in him.

“I shall paint you, Miss Berber,” he said, watching her, “as a Nixie. Water creatures, you know, without souls.”

“No soul?” she reflected, lingering on a puff of smoke. “How chic!”

Stefan was delighted. Hopefully, he broke into French. She replied with fluent ease, but with a strange, though charming, accent. The exotic French fitted her whole personality, he felt, as English could not do. He was pricked by curiosity as to her origin, and did not hesitate to ask it, but she gave her shadow of a smile, and waved her cigarette vaguely. “QuiÉn sabe?” she shrugged.

“Do you know Spanish?” he asked in French, seeking a clue.

“Only what one picks up in California.” He was no nearer a solution.

“Were you out there long?”

She looked at him vaguely. “I should like some coffee, please.”

Defeated, he was obliged to fetch a cup. When he returned, it was to find her talking monosyllabic English to a group of men.

Farraday and McEwan had temporarily resigned Mary to a stream of newcomers, and stood watching the scene from the inner drawing room.

“James,” said McEwan, “get on to the makeup of the crowd round our lady, and compare it with the specimens rubbering the little Berber.”

Farraday smiled in his grave, slow way.

“You're right, Mac, the substance and the shadow.”

Many of the women seated about the room were covertly staring at Felicity, but so far none had joined her group. This consisted, besides Stefan, of two callow and obviously enthralled youths, a heavy semi-bald man with paunched eyes and a gluttonous mouth, and a tall languid person wearing tufts of hair on unexpected parts of his face, and showing the hands of a musician.

Round Mary stood half a dozen women, their host, the kindly and practical Mr. Elliot, a white-haired man of distinguished bearing, and a gigantic young viking with tawny hair and beard and powerful hands.

“That's Gunther, an A1 sculptor,” said McEwan, indicating the viking, who was looking at Mary as his ancestors might have looked at a vision of Freia.

“They're well matched, eh, James?”

“As well as she could be,” the other answered gravely. McEwan looked at his friend. “Mon,” he said, relapsing to his native speech, “come and hae a drop o' the guid Scotch.”

Constance had determined that Felicity should dance, in spite of her well-known laziness. At this point she crossed the room to attack her, expecting a difficult task, but, to her surprise, Felicity hardly demurred. After a moment of sphinx-like communing, she dropped her cigarette and rose.

“Mr. Byrd is going to paint me as something without a soul—I think I will dance,” she cryptically vouchsafed.

“Shall I play?” offered Constance, delighted.

Miss Berber turned to the languid musician.

“Have you your ocarina, Marchmont?” she breathed.

“I always carry it, Felicity,” he replied, with a reproachful look, drawing from his pocket what appeared to be a somewhat contorted meerschaum pipe.

“Then no piano to-night, Connie. A little banal, the piano, perhaps.” Her hands waved vaguely.

A space was cleared; chairs were arranged.

Miss Berber vanished behind a portiere. The languid Marchmont draped himself in a corner, and put the fat little meerschaum to his lips. A clear, jocund sound, a mere thread of music, as from the pipe of some hidden faun, penetrated the room. The notes trembled, paused, and fell to the minor. Felicity, feet bare, toes touched with scarlet, wafted into the room. Her dancing was incredibly light; she looked like some exotic poppy swaying to an imperceptible breeze. The dance was languorously sad, palely gay, a thing half asleep, veiled. It seemed always about to break into fierce life, yet did not. The scent of mandragora hung over it—it was as if the dancer, drugged, were dreaming of the sunlight.

When, waving a negligent hand to the applause, Felicity passed Stefan at the end of her dance, he caught a murmured phrase from her.

“Not soulless, perhaps, but sleeping.” Whether she meant this as an explanation of her dance or of herself he was not sure.

Mary watched the dance with admiration, and wished to compare her impressions of it with her husband's. She tried to catch his eye across the room at the end, but he had drifted away toward the dining room. Momentarily disappointed, she turned to find Farraday at her elbow, and gladly let him lead her, also, in search of refreshments. There was a general movement in that direction, and the drawing room was almost empty as McEwan, purpose in his eye, strode across it to Constance. He spoke to her in an undertone.

“Sing? Does she? I had no idea! She never tells one such things,” his hostess replied. “Do you think she would? But she has no music. You could play for her? How splendid, Mr. McEwan. How perfectly lovely of you. I'll arrange it.” She hurried out, leaving McEwan smiling at nothing in visible contentment. In a few minutes she returned with Mary.

“Of course I will if you wish it,” the latter was saying, “but I've no music, and only know foolish little ballads.”

“Mr. McEwan says he can vamp them all, and it will be too delightful to have something from each of my women stars,” Constance urged. “Now I'll leave you two to arrange it, and in a few minutes I'll get every one back from the dining room,” she nodded, slipping away again.

“Cruel man, you've given me away,” Mary smiled.

“I always brag about my friends,” grinned McEwan. They went over to the piano.

“What price the Bard! Do you know this?” His fingers ran into the old air for “Sigh No More, Ladies.” She nodded.

“Yes, I like that.”

“And for a second,” he spun round on his stool, “what do you say to a duet?” His candid blue eyes twinkled at her.

“A duet!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise. “Do you sing, Mr. McEwan?”

“Once in a while,” and, soft pedal down, he played a few bars of Marzials' “My True Love Hath My Heart,” humming the words in an easy barytone.

“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Mary. “I love that.” They tried it over, below their breaths.

The room was filling again. People began to settle down expectantly; McEwan struck his opening chords.

Just as Mary's first note sounded, Stefan and Felicity entered the room. He started in surprise; then Mary saw him smile delightedly, and they both settled themselves well in front.

“'Men were deceivers ever,'” sang Mary, with simple ease, and “'Hey nonny, nonny.'” The notes fell gaily; her lips and eyes smiled.

There was generous applause at the end of the little song. Then McEwan struck the first chords of the duet.

“'My true love hath my heart,'” Mary sang clearly, head up, eyes shining. “'My true love hath my heart,'” replied McEwan, in his cheery barytone.

“'—And I have his,'” Mary's bell tones announced.

“'—And I have his,'” trolled McEwan.

“'There never was a better bargain driven,'” the notes came, confident and glad, from the golden figure with its clear-eyed, glowing face. They ended in a burst of almost defiant optimism.

Applause was hearty and prolonged. McEwan slipped from his stool and sought a cigarette in the adjoining room. There was a general congratulatory movement toward Mary, in which both Stefan and Felicity joined. Then people again began to break into groups. Felicity found her sofa, Mary a chair. McEwan discovered Farraday under the arch between the two drawing-rooms, and stood beside him to watch the crowd. Stefan had moved with Felicity toward her sofa, and, as she disposed herself, she seemed to be talking to him in French. McEwan and Farraday continued their survey. Mary was surrounded by people, but her eyes strayed across the room. Felicity appeared almost animated, but Stefan seemed inattentive; he fidgeted, and looked vague.

A moment more, and quite abruptly he crossed the room, and planted himself down beside Mary.

“Ah,” sighed McEwan, apparently À propos of nothing, and with a trace of Scotch, “James, I'll now hae another whusky.”

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