Early next morning Mary telephoned Miss Mason. Stefan, who had come home late, was still asleep when the Sparrow arrived, and by the time he had had his breakfast the whole flat was in its final stage of disruption. A few pieces of furniture were to be sent to the cottage, a few more stored, and the studio was to be returned to its original omnibus status. Mrs. Corriani, priestess of family emergencies, had been summoned from the depths; the Sparrow had donned an apron, Mary a smock; Lily, the colored maid, was packing china into a barrel, surrounded by writhing seas of excelsior. For Stefan, the flat might as well have been given over to the Furies. He fetched his hat. “Mary,” he said, “I'm not painting again until we have moved. Djinns, Afrits and Goddesses should be allowed to perform their spiritings unseen of mortals. I shall go and sit in the Metropolitan and contemplate Rodin's Penseur--he is so spacious.” “Very well, dearest,” said Mary brightly. She had slept away her low spirits. “Don't forget Mr. Farraday is sending his car in for us at three o'clock.” He looked nonplused. “You don't mean to say we are moving to-day?” “Yes, you goose,” she laughed, “don't you remember?” “I'm frightfully sorry, Mary, but I made an engagement for this evening, to go to the theatre. I knew you would not want to come,” he added. Mary looked blank. “But, Stefan,” she exclaimed, “everything is arranged! We are dining with the Farradays. I told you several times we were moving on the fourth. You make it so difficult, dear, by not taking any interest.” Her voice trembled. She had worked and planned for their flitting for a week past, was all eagerness to be gone, and now he, who had been equally keen, seemed utterly indifferent. He fidgeted uncomfortably, looking contrite yet rebellious. Mary was at a loss. The Sparrow, however, promptly raised her crest and exhibited a claw. “Land sakes, Mr. Byrd,” she piped, “you are a mighty fine artist, but that don't prevent your being a husband first these days! Men are all alike--” she turned to Mary--“always ready to skedaddle off when there's work to be done. Now, young man--” she pointed a mandatory finger--“you run and telephone your friends to call the party off.” Her voice shrilled, her beady eyes snapped; she looked exactly like one of her namesakes, ruffled and quarreling at the edge of its nest. Stefan burst out laughing. “All right, Miss Sparrow, smooth your feathers. Mary, I'm a mud-headed idiot--I forgot the whole thing. Pay no attention to my vagaries, dearest, I'll be at the door at three.” He kissed her warmly, and went out humming, banging the door behind him. “My father was the same, and my brothers,” the Sparrow philosophized. “Spring-cleaning and moving took every ounce of sense out of them.” Mary sighed. Her zest for the preparations had departed.