There was much to be done before they could leave the city, and Mary had practically no assistance from Stefan in her arrangements. She would ask his advice about the packing or disposal of a piece of furniture, and he would make some suggestion, often impracticable; but on any further questioning he would run his hands through his hair, or thrust them into his pockets, looking either vague or nervous. “Why fuss about such things, dear?” or “Do just as you like,” or “I'm sure I haven't a notion,” were his most frequent answers. He developed a habit of leaving his work and following Mary restlessly from room to room as she packed or sorted, which she found rather wearing. On one such occasion--it was the day before they were to leave--she was carrying a large pile of baby's clothes from her bedroom to a trunk in the sitting-room, while Stefan stood humped before the fireplace, smoking. As she passed him he frowned nervously. “How heavily you tread, Mary,” he jerked out. She stood stock-still and flushed painfully. “I think, Stefan,” she said, with the tears of feeling which came over-readily in these days welling to her eyes, “instead of saying that you might come and help me to carry these things.” He looked completely contrite. “I'm sorry, dearest, it was a silly thing to say. Forgive me,” and he kissed her apologetically, taking the bundle from her. He offered to help several times that afternoon, but as he never knew where anything was to go, and fidgeted from foot to foot while he hung about her, she was obliged at last to plead release from his efforts. “Stefan dear,” she said, giving him rather a harassed smile, “you evidently find this kind of thing a bore. Why don't you run out and leave me to get on quietly with it?” “I know I've been rotten to you, and I thought you wanted me to help,” he explained, in a self-exculpatory tone. She stroked his cheek maternally. “Run along, dearest. I can get on perfectly well alone.” “You're a brick, Mary. I think I'll go. This kind of thing--” he flung his arm toward the disordered room--“is too utterly unharmonious.” And kissing her mechanically he hastened out. That night for the first time in their marriage he did not return for dinner, but telephoned that he was spending the evening with friends. Mary, tired out with her packing, ate her meal alone and went to bed immediately afterwards. His absence produced in her a dull heartache, but she was too weary to ponder over his whereabouts.